


Baby Be Mine

by StormDancer



Series: Not Your Baby [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Angry Sex, Bottom Zayn, Frat Bro Harry, Fuckbuddies, Hipster Zayn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5244344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Zayn is an English major who hates frats, Harry is a frat bro with great arms, and these things cause Zayn problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Be Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is at last! I hope you enjoy :D Don't know/don't own anything, obviously. 
> 
> Disclaimer: the opinions, vocabulary, and/or statements made by characters in this fic are not indicative of my own beliefs. Not all of the characters, even the good ones, are always PC or educated, and that's conscious, because not everyone in the world is. It does not mean those are my beliefs, or necessarily the beliefs of the real people these characters are reflections of--just of these specific characters in this world.

Zayn knows the score the second he walks into section that Wednesday. Hell, he knew the score when he signed up for the Introduction to Milton lecture, and even more when he saw who was in the lecture hall the first week of class, but discussion section cinches it. He doesn’t need his fellow section sufferers’ names, even. Four freshmen looking wide-eyed and scared, one other upperclassmen English major he recognizes vaguely who gives him a commiserating glance before she goes back to her phone, one sophomore with the telltale look of the slump about him, two non-entities, and the frat bro taking the easy A.

He manages to suppress his sigh as he takes the seat next to the other English major and pulls out his pen. It’s only an hour a week, he can last through it. Even if he knew he should have just sucked it up and taken the seminar, despite it being senior fall and having senioritis and writing his thesis and all that shit. At least there are people he can talk to in those classes.

“Now that we’re all here,” the TA—a curly-haired woman with the tentative air of someone who’s not in academia for teaching—says from the front of the room, “Let’s get started. Here are the syllabi, if you didn’t pick them up in lecture, and a syllabus for section, expectations and all that.” Zayn takes the page a freshman passes him, glances at it before passing it on. Nothing unexpected.

“Before we go over it,” the TA goes on, “I thought we’d introduce ourselves, even if we don’t remember the names past today. So, name, year, why you’re taking the class.” There’s a breath of air in the room, like everyone sighed. Zayn hates the start of semesters. “I’ll start,” the TA continues, though not particularly enthusiastically. “Like it says on the syllabus, I’m Miriam, I’m in my third year of grad school, specializing in religious texts of the late Medieval era.  Feel free to contact me about anything you need help with, or come to office hours.” Zayn presses down the urge to start a chorus of ‘hi Miriam’. It’s not her fault sections for classes that edge on easy As are always drags. “Okay, now you.” She nods to the freshman next to her, with her open notebook and no fewer than three different colors of pens.

Zayn promptly forgets the name of the two freshmen on the other side of the table, the two non-entities, and the sophomore, before they get to the bro.

 “I’m Harry,” the frat bro drawls out. His voice is low and slow, the sort of voice that could put you to sleep, but Zayn bets he won’t be hearing much of it anyway. He’s pretty enough to look at, with pouty pink lips and broad shoulders and massive arms bared by his tank top with greek letters on it, but that’s probably the only saving grace. “I’m a senior history major, and I’m here because my senior thesis is on this time period, and I wanted another perspective.”

Zayn manages not to snort. Sure. Zayn knows what he’s here for—the easy A. That’s always what bros are in classes for. A way to keep his GPA up as he plays…Zayn surveys him. Not football, he’s built but not like that. Maybe a runner? Zayn can’t tell until he stands up. And it doesn’t really matter. Zayn knows his type anyway. He’ll probably be hungover through the whole class, which is better than the other option, which is making jokes about, like, how Lucifer is gay because he ran away or something.

He knows he didn’t actually snort, or make any noise, but the bro’s eyes still turn to him. And Zayn can’t say he expected it, but he recognizes it anyway—the slow, blatant, up and down flick of Harry’s eyes, over Zayn’s face, down to the chestpiece that shows over the neckline of his t-shirt, probably over the ink on his arms, back up to his face again, meeting his eyes. There’s no mistaking the look there, the lazy attraction, the way he smirks when he sees Zayn’s caught him, like Zayn should be pleased he’s being leered at. Zayn rolls his eyes, and breaks the eye contact so he can doodle again. He would think that Harry could at least try to be subtle, but he’s a frat bro. Subtle isn’t in his genetics.

The sophomore introduces herself, then the other English major—Sherri, right—then Zayn has to look up again. “’m Zayn,” he says, “I’m a senior English major. I’m taking this course because I’ve done a lot of work on the more modern side, and I want a more historical perspective.” It’s not entirely untrue, even if Sherri gives him a quick smile. Zayn grins back. She gets the distributional requirements subtext.

Harry’s still watching him, unabashedly staring. It’s almost disconcerting, if Zayn cared enough. He doesn’t, but he still meets Harry’s gaze again, so he knows he can’t intimidate him. It’s like animals and eye contact, Zayn figures. He can’t look away first, because he’s not letting Harry establish dominance. Not this guy with his backward baseball cap and really fucking nice arms.

It doesn’t seem to intimidate Harry, though. His lips just stay in that stupid smirk, and he fucking winks before he looks back at the TA. Zayn rolls his eyes again. He has a feeling this is going to be a long semester.

\---

“So, how was class?”

“Brilliant, ‘course. The World War Two seminar wasn’t bad. You?” Zayn drops his backpack on the ground near the door, then goes over to collapse onto the couch next to Jawaad, grab the controller his cousin passes him.

“Fine. Orgo’s gonna kick my ass.” He hits a button, and the screen dings as he gets a shell.

“Welcome to pre-med. See what you do for your mom’s approval?”

“Oh, fuck off. We can’t all be the only boy and the first one to go to college and have our parents think the sun shines out our ass.”

“It’s a blessing,” Zayn agrees, though he’s pretty sure Jawaad doesn’t know what it took to get here, and passes Jawaad. It feels good. “But like, you know your mom would love you even if you ditched the pre-med.”

“Yeah. But I like it.” Jawaad kicks at Zayn’s foot, as he plants another bomb. “You okay? You’re vicious.”

“Yeah.” Zayn shakes his head, pushes the hair that’s fallen from his topknot out of his face. He likes this style, and it felt like time to ditch last year’s long hair for the shaved sides, but at least when it was long it all stayed back. “Just, like. Section. You know. It’s all freshman and bros. Gonna be a drag.”

It’s not entirely fair, Zayn has to admit. It was only the first class, and that’s always a drag, because there’s nothing to say. But it will be, he knows it. He’ll have to sit through being ogled, at the very least, because Harry hadn’t made any attempt to pretend he wasn’t watching Zayn for most of class.

“No one interesting at all?”

Zayn thinks, for a second, of Harry. Of his arms, and how they’d look pinning Zayn to the bed. How his lips would look around Zayn’s cock. How he’d looked at Zayn, with that look that was somehow all sex on his face, even though they were in fucking class. How he’d smirked like he’d thought Zayn would be up for it.

“No,” Zayn says, firmly. “You? It’s been a week, you in love yet?”

“Shut up,” Jawaad retorts, sharp enough that Zayn knows he’s hiding something. It was the same way when they were kids, when Zayn’d figured out Jawaad was hiding a failed test before his parents had and gone to figure out a way to get him extra credit work before they could yell at him. He knows that voice. And it makes sense. Jawaad does have that habit, falls in love at least once a year. He doesn’t get what it means, to guard his heart, because it can be dangerous to give it away. He’s never known any risks. Zayn can only hope it stays that way.

“Don’t tell me, then.” Zayn shrugs. He’ll find out soon enough. “On your left!”

“I fucking see him, man, lay off…”

\---

Zayn ends up going to the next lecture. He doesn’t think that will last very long, even though it’s at 12:30 so he’s often awake by then, but he might as well pretend he’s going to actually go to class. He chooses a seat on the edge of one of the aisles, so hopefully no one will want to sit in one of the two seats between him and the wall, and opens up his computer. He does pull up a word document to take notes if the lecturer says anything interesting that he won’t get from the reading, but he also opens up Chrome. He’s been thinking about a new tattoo, something for senior year, and now’s as good a time as ever to browse. He searches for ‘lotus’ as the people even later than him stumble in, bookmarking the ones with sort of the looks he wants.

“I like that one.” Zayn’s head whips around at the voice behind him. He thinks he recognizes it, but please, no—but he’s right. It’s that frat bro’s, Harry, slow drawl, and it’s Harry sitting behind him, with a notebook open on the desk, in another tank top that bares his arms and a backwards baseball cap. He grins smugly at Zayn’s surprise. He’s got dimples. Fuck.

“And I should care?” Zayn snaps. He doesn’t appreciate snooping. He really doesn’t appreciate his space being encroached on.

“You’re prickly, aren’t you?” Harry asks, like it doesn’t matter that Zayn clearly doesn’t want to be talking to him. “I like the one you just bookmarked. It’d look good in black and white.”

Just because he’s right is no reason to humor him. “Yeah, I’ll definitely take your opinion into account,” Zayn retorts.

“You should.” Harry leans forward, just enough outside Zayn’s space that he can’t really call him on it, but clearly with intent. “Do the tattoos turn you on?”

“What?”

“Getting tattoos.” Harry’s full lips twist into a smirk. “It turns people on, right? Is that why you get them? Why you’re getting another one?”

“I’m getting another one because I want a symbol.” Zayn knows he should reply, shouldn’t encourage him, but he can’t quite help it.

“Hm,” Harry hums, low and deep in his chest. “You should think about me when you get this one.”

Zayn snorts, and turns away. Ignoring him seems like the best bet.  But now searching for the tattoo feels…weird. Knowing he’d always be thinking if Harry would be watching. He closes the window, opens up the layout for the literary magazine he’s been playing with for their first issue this year. He doesn’t have to, he knows; he’s less the editor and more the editor’s friend who helps out a lot but doesn’t technically have any responsibility, but they’ve had really stupid layouts for the past few editions and now he’s in a position to change that.

He keeps playing with it as the professor starts talking, taking notes when he says something actually interesting, which he occasionally does. He thinks he hears the scraping of pen over paper behind him, but really, he couldn’t care less. He does know that he feels eyes on him almost the whole class, like Harry’s staring at him. It’s—it’s not unflattering, and it’s not like Zayn doesn’t know how he looks, but it’s…intense.

It’s just that he’s a bro, and they don’t know how to function if they aren’t hitting on someone, Zayn figures, and notes down a bit about Milton’s politics. He wishes he’d worn a hood today. Having eyes on the back of his neck is weird. But the one time he turns around to glare, to tell Harry to fuck off because he might be able to do that to other people but Zayn’s not a piece of meat to be stared at, Harry’s looking very innocently at his notebook.

He’s fooling no one at all, Zayn thinks grumpily, and goes back to his notes. Fuck him. Zayn’s here to learn, not have frat bros stare at him.

\---

“Hey.”

“Are you following me?” Zayn demands, dodging a group of students heading the other way. It’s a nice crisp fall day, and he’d love to sit on the grass and get some reading done before his next class, but he can’t do that if Harry’s following him.

“I’m just leaving class.” Harry holds up both his hands. “Not my fault if you’re going the same way as my house, is it?”

“Probably,” Zayn mutters. Harry laughs. It’s a low rumble. His voice is really obscenely low.

“And—”

“There’s always an and.”

“I thought there was always a but,” Harry shoots back.

“There’s always a conjunction, then.”

“Oh?” Harry’s voice somehow changes, until it’s coated with sex, with invitation. “Is there always a with?”

“There’s always a when, as in, when are you going to get to the point?” Zayn asks, sweetly as he can. He wants to lie down in the grass with his book. If he stays around Harry much longer he’ll probably be asking things about reps and football scores or something.

“Can’t I just enjoy your company?”

Zayn huffs out a breath. “You don’t know my company enough to enjoy it, so no, you can’t. Unless you mean you like mentally undressing me, in which case, didn’t you have your fill in class?”

Harry blinks, but he doesn’t look fazed. His eyes are stupidly green. “My frat’s having a party, Saturday.” He smirks again, like that’s an irresistible proposition. “You should come.”

“With an invitation like that, how can I not?”

“Oh, I can make it pretty if you want.” Harry pulls off his hat, shakes out his hair. It’s longer than Zayn expected, thick and brown. He flutters his eyelashes, but the way he takes a step closer, sauntering forward like his dick’s leading him, leaves nothing to the imagination. “Come to my party. I promise you’ll have fun.”

“Yeah, I totally have fun at frat parties.” Zayn rolls his eyes, and starts walking again.

Harry keeps pace with him. Definitely a runner, Zayn thinks, not able to avoid looking at his long legs. “I’d make it worth your while.”

“Now that’s irresistible.”

“Isn’t it?” Harry grins, those dimples appearing again. “Okay, I’m this way. I’ll see you there.”

“Yeah, of course you will,” Zayn agrees, not bothering to hide his sarcasm, and Harry laughs and waves as he takes a turn down a side street towards Greek row. Even in sweatpants, he’s got a nice ass, Zayn can’t help but notice. He’s an ass, but he’s got a nice one too.

\---

“Know how you’re my favorite cousin?”

“Wait thirty seconds until you ask me the favor,” Zayn tells Jawaad. He needs to finish this sentence, and then the paper will be done and he can send it off before the midnight deadline. Who assigns a paper the second week of class, even if it is only five pages?

He hears the bed creak, which means Jawaad’s probably on it, but Zayn ignores him in favor of finishing up his conclusion. He hits the period, saves, then spins around in his desk chair.

Sure enough, Jawaad’s sprawled on his bed. It’s the one clear spot in the room, because Zayn’s bed is sacred but nothing else is, and hanging up clothes is for someone who cares about the state of their t-shirts. He folds the things he cares about.  “Okay, what?”

“My favorite cousin,” Jawaad repeats, sitting up. He’s got the wide-eyed look on that always reminds Zayn of being kids together, of the first time his father had sat Zayn down and told him to look after his little cousins, because that was his job. To make sure they were all right. It’s not why he hangs out with Jawaad; they joke about favorite cousins but he’s legitimately his best friend. But there’s always that streak of protectiveness Zayn doesn’t try to hide. Jawaad’s still innocent, in some ways, and he wants to keep him that way.

“Yeah, sure. What am I doing?”

Jawaad doesn’t bother denying it, just rubs at his neck. “There’s this girl.”

Zayn grins. “Knew it!”

“Yeah, well.” Jawaad shrugs, “She’s really cute, and we’ve been talking, and—I think there’s something there. Anyway, she’s going to be at this party Saturday.”

“Do you need me to wingman?” Zayn asks. He’s not always the best at wingmaning, because he’s a little too quiet, too awkward in situations with a lot of people, but he’s willing to try his best. He knows what Jawaad looks like when he really likes a girl, and it’s like this. Even if it might crash and burn again.

“No! No, you can’t be—I don’t want her seeing you, fuck. Do you know how many girls I’ve lost that way?”

He’s joking, and Zayn knows it, but still. “It’s not like I’m competition,” he mutters. He doesn’t mean—he can be flirty sometimes, he knows, but he never meant that. He’d never do something like that to Jawaad.

This time, it’s Jawaad’s turn to roll his eyes. “Stop feeling bad. I get just as many girls who are disappointed you don’t play for your team. No, just. The party’s at Delta Chi. They aren’t Pi Sig or anything, are they?”

Zayn can feel his eyebrows go up. “Delta Chi? You’re going to a frat party.”

“I’m going to a party at a frat, because there’s a girl I like who’ll be there,” Jawaad corrects. “I’m suffering for love, or something.”

“For your dick, maybe.”

“Zayn.”

“Yeah.” Zayn sighs, and pushes his hair out of his face. “I’ll go.”

“No, that’s not what I’m asking. Do you think it’s a stupid idea? I’m not the biggest guy and all, do you think it’ll matter if there’s all those comparisons?”

“If it does, fuck her. But I’m coming.”

“I don’t need you to wingman.”

“Tough luck.” Zayn dodges the pillow Jawaad throws at him, but he doesn’t say the other things. That he’s not letting his cousin go alone. That he doesn’t think there will be an issue, but the kids who used to have an issue with them, with their race or religion, generally are in frats now. Jawaad doesn’t know, really. Zayn had already fought the fights by the time he got to school, or he got the fights away from him. But no, he’s not letting Jawaad go alone. In case. “I’m coming.”

“Then no bitching.”

“That I can’t promise,” Zayn retorts, and catches the next pillow. He whips it back at Jawaad, who flips him off and leaves, before he turns back to his computer to give his essay a read through before he sends it in. If he gets this in now, he can try to get his Dostoyevsky reading done before he goes to bed tonight.

\---

“No bitching,” Jawaad warns, as they walk down Greek row. There are at least three other parties going on that Zayn can hear, and he thinks he sees something fly out of a window down the street. Joy of joys. This is definitely exactly where he wants to be of a night.

Still, “I wasn’t!” Zayn protests. He’s been nice. He got properly dressed up, in tight jeans and boots and a MTV sweatshirt he ripped the sleeves off ages ago. It’s too hot out still for his leather jacket, but that’s probably a good thing. It’s the one article of clothing he splurged on, he doesn’t want it getting ruined in PBR and grain and probably vomit. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it,” Jawaad informs him, fairly accurately, as they reach a door with Delta Chi on it, in big letters. If that wasn’t enough to give it away, the pounding bass inside would be. Zayn sighs. It’s not a bad looking house, he guesses, a normal sort of townhouse in an indeterminate greenish sort of color, with the lettering on it in what would probably be a bright gold in daylight, but that doesn’t make what’s inside any more appealing. “Come on.”

“This girl better be worth it,” Zayn warns, and pulls open the door.

Inside, it’s hot and loud, filled with people and the thrum of the bass. It smells heavily of sweat, with so many people packed in, and Zayn wrinkles his nose as he closes the door behind them.

They fight their way through guys in t-shirts and jerseys and girls in miniskirts towards the kitchen, because Zayn is sure as hell not doing this sober. There’s a blonde guy in the kitchen, wearing a Delta Chi tank top and standing behind what looks like a makeshift bar.

“What can I get you?” he yells over the music, as they fight their way up.

Zayn glances at the array of alcohol. “Jack and coke,” he demands, “And—”

“Same.” Jawaad fills in. The guy gives them a broad smile, like that’s the most brilliant thing in the world, and pours them two solo cups, with generous amounts of whiskey in both, at least. Zayn takes a long drink of his when the blonde hands it over. It burns going down, the sort of burn that might get him through this.  

“Thanks,” he tells the blonde, who laughs. He’s flushed, clearly drunk already.

“Have fun! Beer pong tournament at one.”

Riveting. Zayn toasts him, then gets out of the way.

He loses Jawaad half an hour in, because he spots a pretty blonde girl who must be the one he’s looking for and runs off, with a final warning from Zayn to get him if there’s any trouble at all. Then Zayn really has nothing to do but drink more, and keep an eye on Jawaad. He chats with whoever comes over to the wall he’s holding up, but he can’t really say he has any interest in it, given most of the chatting is a few girls flirting, who he puts off as gently as he can. At least the blonde guy behind the table has an infectious grin, and he gives Zayn alcohol each time he comes back for it, which makes him better than the rest in Zayn’s book.

He’s four drinks in, leaning against the wall watching the beer pong tournament, where the blonde guy and another massive man who seems to be called Bressie if the cheering’s anything to go from demolish all comers, when suddenly there’s a body next to him, and maybe Zayn’s just drunk enough, but he knows who it is before he looks.

Harry’s looking good, of course. He’s not wearing a hat and his hair is thick and looks good for pulling, and his cheeks are red and his lips dark with some sort of juice probably, and he smiles slow and knowing. “Zayn! Didn’t think you’d come.” Zayn doesn’t know if he’s doing it on purpose, but the way he’s leaning against the wall make the muscles in his arms flex and bulge. Fuck.

“It’s not for you,” Zayn assures him. He knows that. “I just, like. Someone else.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s definitely in his space this time, not quite caging him in but close enough Zayn has to tilt his head up to look at him. “I saw you with that guy. Your boyfriend?”

Zayn shakes his head, licks his lips to wet them. Harry’s definitely watching that. “Cousin.”

“Good.”

“Yeah?” Zayn’s itching for a cigarette suddenly, antsy with it. “What would you have done if he was my boyfriend?”

“Seen if you were up for a threesome,” Harry replies immediately, still in that low, slow drawl. It gets a laugh out of Zayn, though he’s not sure Harry meant it like that until he sees Harry grin, pleased with himself. “There. I was wondering if you could do anything with those lips but scowl.”

“I don’t scowl.”

“Sure you do. It’s pretty.” Harry’s gaze flick from his lips to his eyes. “Makes me wonder what else would make your lips look pretty.”  Zayn rolls his eyes, and one side of Harry’s lips quirks up. “Like laughing, I meant!”

Sure he did, but Zayn’s a little too drunk to get into that. “I can laugh.” Zayn protests. “It just usually happens around my friends.”

“Yeah?” Harry definitely purrs it, a vibration going through Zayn too. He’s too hot, he thinks. Too hot and drunk and he’s not sure what Harry’s game is here, if it’s more than the obvious. Then again, he probably doesn’t think past the obvious, and he’s got those arms. “What if I don’t want to be your friend?”

Zayn shakes his head, trying to clear it. It’s too hot in here. “I’m going for a smoke,” he announces, and pushes past Harry to go find the backyard. There’s a group of people passing a joint around on a couch, but Zayn settles on the opposite side of the yard from where a sharp-faced boy holds court. He doesn’t want to deal with that.

“You smoke?” He sort of expected Harry to stay behind, find someone else, but apparently he thinks Zayn is hot enough that he followed him out.

“No, it’s ironic.” Zayn rolls his eyes as he flicks open his lighter. Harry’s face is bright in the flare of light, flushed and really annoyingly something Zayn wouldn’t mind tasting. “Yeah, I smoke.”

“You’re going to get cancer.”

“No, really? No one’s ever told me that,” Zayn retorts, and Harry laughs. Zayn brings the cigarette to his lips, lets the smoke fall out from between them, enjoying the way Harry watches. “I’m trying to quit. But it’s taking a while.”

“Hm.” Suddenly, Harry’s close again, almost close enough that Zayn could burn him with the cigarette, if he wanted. “I could give you something else to do with your mouth.”

It’s such a bad line. It’s such a bad, horrible line, but Harry’s arms are big and the muscles are rippling next to Zayn’s head, and his lips are full and pink, and fuck it all, this is what college is for, right? Doing stupid shit like sleeping with frat bros.

“Yeah, fine,” Zayn agrees, stubs out his cigarette, and kisses Harry.

He doesn’t seem to expect it, his lips still under Zayn’s for a second, but then he gets with the picture. He tastes like cheap vodka and cheaper beer, but there’s something sweet underneath, and fuck, but he can kiss. Harry presses forward so Zayn’s pushed back into the wall, so he can get a hand around Harry’s neck and keep him there, lick at his lips until Harry’s mouth opens and he really can see what they teach at frats. His other hand roams over Harry’s back, muscles and skin and bones underneath, and Harry’s hands are on his sides, his hips, his back, his ass, until even this is too far away, and he hooks a leg around Harry’s to bring him closer. He can feel Harry against him, getting hard, and Zayn can’t look but it feels big.

“Fuck,” Harry moans, as Zayn drags his lips away to kiss at his neck. He doesn’t have much facial hair, but Zayn’s never been a fan of beard burn on him and he’s got a nice jaw. His hands are on Zayn’s ass now, and they’re big, big enough that Zayn’s mouth’s watering a little. “Do you want—I’ve got a room.”

“So classy,” Zayn retorts, but, “Yeah, let’s go.” Whatever. Maybe he’ll get it out of his system. He doesn’t really care, he just wants Harry’s hands on him more, wants to see how Harry’s arms looking holding him up above him.

“Now who’s romantic?” Harry retorts, and tugs his mouth back up for another kiss, nipping at Zayn’s lip until he moans, and pushes at Harry’s (very broad, very firm) chest.

“Come on, let’s go.” He’s burning, and he wants Harry’s pants off, wants to see if he’s as big as Zayn thinks he might be.

Harry pauses, though, because he can’t even do this conveniently, and his eyes narrow. “How drunk are you?”

Great, the one frat bro in the world who doesn’t want to take advantage of a drunk partier. “Drunk enough I want to do this, not so drunk I can’t quote Friends at you,” he replies, with a roll of his eyes. He thinks he’s going to strain a muscle in his eyes, at this rate. “That good enough for you?”

Harry laughs again, and this time when he kisses him, he cups his face, somehow almost tender despite the dirty grind of his hips against Zayn’s. “Yeah,” he says, and lets go of Zayn to lead the way back into the house.

Zayn doesn’t bother looking around the room Harry shows him into, just shuts the door and kisses Harry again, dragging through Harry’s hair. Harry groans when he tugs, his hips stuttering a little, so Zayn does it again, smirking when Harry makes that sound again.

“Sensitive?” he coos, and Harry grimaces at him.

“Fuck you.” Maybe his sport is wrestling, because Zayn ends up on his back on the bed, and Harry’s lips are on his throat this time, so Zayn’s head falls back. It distracts him enough he doesn’t realize Harry’s pulling his shirt off until his lips leave Zayn’s skin long enough to tug it the rest of the way off, throwing it on the floor somewhere. Zayn thinks he should protest, but Harry’s staring.

Zayn smirks, lifting himself up on an elbow as Harry’s eyes follow the lines of his ink. He’s not built particularly, but he knows he looks good.

“Like what you see?” he asks. It’s a perfect place for snark, but Harry just grins, excited, and leans down to lick a long, slow line from Zayn’s jeans to his navel, keeping eye contact with Zayn as he does. “Fucking hell!”  Harry’s laughing at him, but Zayn’s too turned on to care, especially when he moves up to circle Zayn’s nipples with his tongue, so Zayn shivers and grabs at Harry’s ass while he’s there, to keep him close enough to grind into. Zayn knew his ass would feel as good as it looked, enough that he can’t quite stop the displeased sound when Harry shifts back to sitting, so Zayn can’t hold on anymore.

“You can feel me up more later.” Harry doesn’t sound very sorry, and he doesn’t look it, his lips swollen, his eyes bright. But then he pulls off his own shirt, and Zayn finds it in him to forgive him. There’s a really stupid butterfly on his chest, and some also stupid laurel leaves that run down his hips under his jeans, and he still somehow manages to make Zayn want to lick them, to follow the line of the laurels to the logical end.

“Like what you see?” he drawls, and in response Zayn doesn’t have a choice but to shove at him until Harry’s the one on his back, and Zayn can do exactly what he planned, tracing each line of the laurels he can get at until Harry’s squirming and moaning and needy in a way that makes Zayn grin.

“You gonna tease, or you gonna do something?” Harry demands, at last.

Zayn lifts his head, licks his lips so he knows they’re shiny with spit and Harry’s eyes go dark. He wants to tease, he does, but the bulge in Harry’s jeans is really impressive and he’s wanted to get his mouth on that since they’ve started.

It’s just as impressive when Zayn gets it out, shoving Harry’s jeans open and down far enough that his dick’s free. No boxers, he notes idly, but he doesn’t really care if Harry did expect to get laid tonight. Zayn’s not one to be intimidated by other guys’ size, but if he was, he would be by Harry. He’s less intimidated by Harry’s smug face, like he knows what Zayn’s thinking. But whatever, Zayn can put up with that for licking up his dick, mouthing over the head until Harry’s moaning properly.

Zayn doesn’t take a lot of time, but he is thorough, sucking and licking and kissing with a hand on Harry’s hip and another alternating between cupping his balls and stroking the parts of his cock Zayn can’t get in his mouth. Harry’s hand finds its way to Zayn’s hair, but he doesn’t push or anything impolite, just holds on, tightening when Zayn does something he knows he should replicate. His jaw’s starting to ache, echoing the ache in his cock that he’s keeping at bay by grinding against the sheets for friction, by the time Harry’s hand tightens again. “I’m gonna come,” he warns, and Zayn would smile if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied.

He tightens his grip just a little around his cock, hollows out his cheeks as he sucks, glancing up through his eyelashes to meet Harry’s eyes, and Harry swears again. He looks properly undone, his hair messy and his whole chest red and his eyes half-lidded and dark. He’s still swearing when he comes, his head thrown back and his eyes squeezed shut.

Zayn swallows, making a face even though Harry’s come isn’t the worst he’s had in his mouth, keeps stroking Harry through it until he starts to soften, when he pulls off. Harry looks loose, boneless as he’s sunk into the mattress, his lips curved into a smile. Which is all well and good for him, but Zayn still has an issue.

“Are you gonna be useless now?” he asks, sharply as he can.

“Give me a second.” Harry’s hand waves, but then it’s cupping Zayn’s head, bringing him up to kiss him slowly, Harry licking at his mouth like he likes the taste of himself. That’s hot enough that Zayn’s rutting against Harry, desperate, but fuck if he’s getting himself off, he’s not letting Harry get away with that.

He’s almost reconsidering that stance by the time Harry stops kissing him.

“Okay, on your back,” he orders, and Zayn doesn’t usually follow orders like that, but he’s desperate and he wants Harry to touch him and Harry’s voice is dark and low and sure. Harry props himself up on his elbow for a second, looking him with lazy, appreciative eyes, and Zayn appreciates it, he does, but he’s also got a bit of a situation here. He brings Harry’s attention to it with a moan and a roll of his hips, and Harry’s lips twitch.

“You’re impatient.”

“I know what I want,” Zayn corrects.

And Zayn will give him this—Harry delivers. His mouth’s hot and warm and his lips were made to be on a cock, and Zayn’s not sure if he has a gag reflex or not but he’s leaning towards the latter. Even if he does, he sucks cock like he doesn’t care, loud and enthusiastic and messy, and Zayn’s on edge enough that he lasts barely a respectable amount of time before he’s gasping out a warning. Harry hums his acknowledgment, a hum that goes right from Zayn’s dick to every nerve ending, then he somehow manages to take Zayn even deeper, and Zayn’s coming on a quiet gasp and a wave of pleasure.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, when Zayn collapses back. He’s looking at Zayn, at all of him, it seems like.

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees. It about sums it up.

\---

Zayn wakes up alone. He can’t say he’s surprised, or even really displeased, as he stretches, rolling onto his back so that the sun’s out of his eyes. It saves him the awkwardness of a morning after, and he knows himself and his tendency to cuddle in bed. He really wouldn’t want to wake up spooning Harry. Ideally he’d have gone home last night, saved himself the walk of shame, but it’s too late for that now. Harry’s bed was comfortable, and if he sneaks out now, there’s still a chance Jawaad will have gone home with that girl and he won’t notice Zayn didn’t spend the night at theirs.

It was nice of Harry to let him sleep, though, Zayn has to admit. Or maybe he just didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness of kicking Zayn out, so it was easier this way. No good way to sneak out when your hook up’s in your bed.

Whichever way, he can do them both a favor and get gone. He doesn’t especially want to spend a lot of time here anyway—he’s got reading and some shit for the magazine to do, and he’s meeting Claire for coffee in the afternoon. And he needs a shower. So he rolls out of bed, doing up the jeans they hadn’t quite managed to get out of last night. He finds his shirt folded neatly on a chair, which is either weird or a message to get out. Zayn actually thinks it’s more likely it’s just weird—the whole room is pretty neat, from the Packer’s jersey and Mick Jagger poster mounted on the walls to the rows of CDs on a shelf to neatly closed dresser. It’s definitely neater than Zayn’s room.

Zayn pulls on his shirt, checks to make sure his wallet and phone are both in his pockets still, and glances in the mirror on the back of the door to make sure he doesn’t look too walk of shame. Some of it is unavoidable, but he grabs a hair tie off the dresser, ties his hair up into a top knot.

Then he slips out the door, quietly as he can in his boots. It’s only eleven, so he figures everyone in the house should still be asleep, after a party like last night’s that was still going on when he’d crashed. He doesn’t want to be awake, but he’ll take it if it gets him out alone, then he can go home and crash for another few hours.

He makes it all the way downstairs, passing by the solo cups and other random crap scattered around the floor, and he’s just about to get to the hall when he hesitates. He doesn’t want to just disappear. That’s an asshole move, and he has to see Harry again. And he at least has some basic manners. It’s too late to leave a note, and waiting around for Harry to get back would defeat the purpose, but there’s someone puttering in what he remembers is the kitchen, so he sticks his head in, clears his throat so the guy turns around.

“Hey!” the guy—a brunette in gym shorts that reveal a really ripped torso—smiles, welcoming and almost a little shy. Fucking hell. “Do you want some coffee, or breakfast?”

Zayn blinks. “What?” He’d been expecting hostility at worst, judgment at best.

“Coffee? It’s just ready, some of the guys should be getting up soon. Do you want some?”

“Um.” Zayn glances at the door. “No, I was just gonna go, but…”  

“Did Haz get back, then?” the guy asks. The smell of coffee is starting to make its way through the sweat and booze aroma, and it’s starting to be tempting. The kitchen’s a mess, more cups and the booze still out and dirty dishes everywhere, but the guy doesn’t appear to notice.

“Haz?” Zayn either needs more sleep, or he’s still dreaming.

“Oh, weren’t—I thought you were the guy who was with Harry last night?” He honest to god blushes. It’s adorable. Zayn wants to pinch his cheeks. Which is weird, because first of all, he’s definitely bigger than Zayn, and second, he’s got every mark of being just as much a bro as Harry. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to assume.”

“No, I was, I just—yeah.” Well, Zayn will give him this, he doesn’t seem to be judging on the gay thing.

“Well then. Coffee?” He holds up a pot, smiling invitingly.

“Is that coffee?” The demand comes at a yell downstairs, loud enough that whoever it is clearly doesn’t give a fuck if they wake people up.

“Come and get it!” Liam calls back. It’s as good a time as any for Zayn to inch backwards out the door, but then another guy appears at the door blocking Zayn’s escape, the sharp-faced guy Zayn had seen smoking last night, in sweatpants and a tank top.

“Give it,” he demands, holding out his hands; the ripped guy puts a mug in them, and he takes a long sip.

“Tommo, you’ve got to shut the fuck up,” a third guy moans, coming in. Zayn vaguely recognizes him as the blonde who’d been manning the bar, then winning at beer pong. “People are asleep.”

“I wasn’t. And Payno was tempting me with coffee.”

“Want some, Niall?” the ripped guy offers. The blonde shakes his head, then crosses the room to the fridge to pull it open. He emerges with a can of Bud Lite. Of course.

“Niall…”

“I need hair of the dog to deal with this shit,” he says, but with more of a laugh than the scowl Zayn would have if he had to clean this mess up. Then he turns to Zayn. “Who’re you?”

“He’s the guy Harry hooked up with last night,” the ripped guy replies. Zayn wonders if it’s worth trying to head that rep off, but without a name it’s whatever. It’s not like he has any reason to see these people again.

The sharp-faced guy scans Zayn, and oh, there’s the judgment. “Think you stumbled into the wrong party, mate.”

“Louis—”

“Not your mate,” Zayn retorts. “And I’m leaving. I just wanted you to tell Harry—”

“Tell me what?” Zayn turns to see Harry in the doorway. He’s—fuck, he must have just come back from a run, or the gym, or something, because he’s slick with sweat and his t-shirt’s sticking to his chest and Zayn wants to lick him everywhere. This would all be so much easier if he wasn’t so damn hot.

Harry must notice, because he smirks a little, then saunters over to Zayn, moving again like he’s drawn by his dick. His hands land on Zayn’s hips, not quite pulling him in. “Hey, baby,” he purrs, the same deep, throaty rumble that’s more sexy than it should be. “I was hoping you’d still be in my bed.”

Okay. Hot, but Zayn has standards, and he’s not doing this, and especially not with an audience.

“No.” He says it firmly, taking a step back so Harry’s hands fall away. He considers poking at Harry’s chest, but that feels stereotypical. “I’m not your baby, or whatever pet name. We hooked up, that’s all. And now you saw me so I’m not sneaking out, so I’m out.” He steps around Harry, so he can get to the hall. Harry’s mouth is a little open, like he never had anyone say no to him like that. He probably hadn’t. Well, good, Zayn thinks, as he nods a little awkwardly to the other guys, then turns and leaves. He could do with some of the arrogance knocked out of him. Waiting in his bed. Right.

Whatever, it was a good night, and good sex, and he was good for that at least. And with any luck, Jawaad won’t be awake yet and he won’t be teased for forever.

His luck isn’t holding, apparently, because Jawaad’s in the kitchen when he comes home, and he grins when he sees Zayn in last night’s clothes. “Have a good night?” he asks.

Zayn doesn’t stop on his way to his room. He needs sleep. “At least I got some.”

“I’m wooing her!” Jawaad insists, and Zayn flips him off before closing his door behind him. A good Saturday night. Now he and Harry can ignore each other forever in class, which won’t be hard given he doesn’t expect Harry to say anything in the class, and the semester can go on.

\---

“That’s a good point, Lucas,” Miriam says. She’s more patient than Zayn would be; the freshman’s trying, he’ll give him that, but he hadn’t scraped past the surface. “Anyone else?” She scans the room, but no one raises their hand. There’s only about two minutes until section’s over. “What about you, Harry? You haven’t said anything.”

Harry blinks, all big eyes. He’s slouched in his chair, as he has been for all of class. He definitely hadn’t been taking notes (though it’s not like Zayn had done more than doodle, really). Zayn’s not sure if he actually fell asleep, but he thinks he didn’t, because it had felt like someone was looking at him for most of class, and he’s pretty sure it wans’t Lucas.

“Well, I mean,” he starts slowly. Very slowly. Zayn would be surprised if he even opened his book. What comes out of his mouth isn’t wrong, Zayn supposes—he’s just not entirely sure it means anything, or is anything more than restating what Miriam just said with a few jokes and smiles thrown in.  It’s as much as he could expect, really. Miriam smiles, clearly thinking the same thing, then glances at the clock.

“Okay, you all can go,” she announces, and ten books slam shut at the same time, including hers.

Zayn nods a good-bye to Sherri, shoving his book into his backpack, before he heads to the door. The classroom is out of the way enough that there aren’t many students there, and that he hears the feet behind him, clearly hurrying.

He knows it’s not high school, that there hasn’t really ever been a problem here, that there’s a TA mere feet behind him—but he still spins around as soon as he hears the feet, his body tensing instinctively.

But it’s only Harry, trotting to catch up to him. He’s grinning, almost smirking at the tension in Zayn’s body. “Hey!” he’s not panting at all as he catches up. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yeah, ‘s amazing how we’re in the same class and all.”

Harry doesn’t seem put off by Zayn, falling easily into step. “You ran out of there pretty fast. You do that often?”

“Am I supposed to wait around?”

“Well, you left the house pretty fast on Sunday. I’d hoped we could have some fun.” Harry sticks out his lower lip into a pout that’s somehow both at odds with the broad shoulders and strong jaw, and perfectly fitting.

“What are you doing?” Zayn demands. He doesn’t have the patience for this, for whatever game Harry’s playing. Saturday was supposed to get this out of his system, not keep Harry around. “Don’t you know how it works? We hooked up. Now we never talk again, and you go back to your tailgates or whatever.”

He tries to hurry his pace, to get away, but Harry’s legs are longer and he keeps up. “Yeah, that could be how it works,” Harry agrees easily. “But, you’re really hot.” Zayn snorts. As far as flattery goes, that could be better. “And the sex was really good. So we could do it again.”

“Smooth, Styles.”

“Aren’t I?” Harry grins, clearly pleased with himself. It’s cute. It shouldn’t be, but it is. “Come on, baby. We had fun.”

“Not your baby,” Zayn retorts, because that’s the first thing he needs to address. “And what am I supposed to do, blow you in the bathrooms?”

“If you wanted.” Harry’s voice shouldn’t be as hot as it is, and it shouldn’t make Zayn remember that night, how Harry’s cock had felt in his mouth, how his jaw had ached the next day in the best way. “Or you could give me your number.”

“What, so I can be your booty call?” Zayn snorts, fiddling with his earring. Harry’s gaze follows that, catches on the black studs with something like heat. “Thanks, I’m honored, but no.”

“Then I could give you mine.” That voice again, that low purr, and Harry saunters closer. “You could use it when you’re feeling lonely.”

“I’m not lonely often.” But Zayn’s mouth is a little dry, and Harry’s look is all sex, all want, and Zayn knows exactly the seduction routine he’s pulling and he’s not even sure he cares. He’s just really fucking hot. It’s a problem.

“Just in case you need something I can give.” Harry pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, and tucks it into Zayn’s, his fingers lingering right against Zayn’s thigh for a beat. He opens his mouth to say something more—

Then, “Styles! What are you doing? We’ve got to hit the gym!” comes a call, and Harry takes a step back, letting his hand drop. Zayn stays where he is, eying Harry. This is where he shoves him down the stairs so all his friends can laugh, or says something no homo, or steals Zayn’s fucking lunch money.

But instead, Harry just salutes, grins, then turns to jog off down the stairs. He jumps onto the back of one of the guys waiting on the landing, who Zayn thinks was ripped bro from the kitchen, punching his shoulder before he hops off, and disappears down the stairs.

Zayn lets out a breath. He’s not going to use the number, obviously. Harry’s playing with him for some reason, but he’s not going to be a ranking on some frat’s list of hook ups, or anything.

He glances out the window. The pack has made it outside, and he catches the green of Harry’s baseball hat, the gleam of the sun on his hair, his shoulders. He can still feel the heat of his breath on his cheek, the way his fingers had felt through Zayn’s jeans.

It’s not his fault the stupid frat bro’s really hot, he decides, and enters the number into his phone as Bro Harry.

The phone rings just as he hits save, and he grins as he answers, finally heading down the stairs himself.

“What’s up, Caro?”

“I have a little girl here who is desperate to brag to her godfather about how she went to the playground today,” Caroline tells him, and Zayn grins. There’s nothing like hearing from them to brighten up his day.

“Put her on.” He pushes open the door to head into the sunshine. It’s still nice enough that there are plenty of people out on the quad. He cuts across the grass, dodges a stray Frisbee, as Brooklyn chatters about the swings and the seesaw and how she played in the sandbox.

“Heads up!” comes a call, and Zayn jerks away barely fast enough that the football doesn’t hit him in the head. He turns to glare at whoever threw that, because he is on the fucking paths and they shouldn’t be throwing over it. A dark-haired, blue-eyed guy in a Pi Sig tank takes a look at his glare, then starts laughing. There’s a PBR can at his feet.

“Thanks!” Zayn calls. He can’t swear, because Brooklyn’s still on the phone, but he hopes his tone makes it clear he would.

“Oh, fuck off!” One of the other boys calls back. The first guy is still looking at him, a note Zayn recognizes from too many encounters in high school. Zayn covers the phone as best he can, so she doesn’t hear, and keeps walking. It’s not worth it, and there’s too many of them.

Then there’s another football hitting the ground a foot to his right. Zayn doesn’t let himself jump, doesn’t let himself turn around to confront the laughter he can hear behind him, the clink of bottles.

“What did you say, babe?” he asks Brooklyn instead, holding the phone to his ear. “Oh, a tire swing! That’s cool. Did mommy push you on it?”

\---

Zayn more or less forgets about Harry’s number. Or that’s what he tells himself, anyway; there’s no reason to think about it. Sure, it’s in his phone, but there are other people Zayn could hook up with if he wanted to. There’s no reason to think about Harry, with his smirk and his arms and his cock and that irritating arrogance in the way he looked at Zayn, the way he talked to Zayn, like he knew Zayn wanted him.

So no, Zayn doesn’t think about the number. He has to start his senior thesis anyway, and that means long hours in the library; then he has to deal with all the comments Claire has about his layouts for the magazine, most of which are right but some of which are wrong enough that they get into sniping matches over it at the dining hall while Jawaad and Marta laugh; and he has to deal with Jawaad mooning over that girl, which only gets worse as the week goes on.

“So?” Marta asks, popping up next to him, almost close enough he jumps. “What do you think?”

Zayn takes a long look at the painting on the wall. It’s cool, all abstract colors and shapes that seem angry and passionate and yearning all at once. Not for the first time, looking around the hallway which acts as an art gallery for the students, Zayn wishes he hadn’t given up his art. He wasn’t much good, he knows, but this makes him yearn. “It’s amazing,” he says, and means it.

She grins, a quick pleased thing, and tucks her short-chopped black hair behind her head. “Thanks! Glad you could come.”

“I wasn’t going to miss this,” Zayn protests. He and Marta have been friends since they lived next door to each other in the dorms freshman year, and he needed refuge from the pounding bass that played at all hours under his room. He’d exchanged sanctuary for cigarettes and sometimes weed, and thus a friendship was born.

“Well, I wasn’t sure. I heard you were hanging out at Delta Chi last weekend.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. Hook up with one guy in a frat, and suddenly everyone knows. “Jawaad wanted to go. I couldn’t let him go alone.”

“That’s what you always say.” She laughs, elbowing him in the side. She’s small, even proportionately to Zayn, but her elbows are sharp. “I think you just have a type.”

“Fuck off. Like I’d have anything to do with anyone there.” He snorts. “About as much chance as you and the Beta Nu girls hanging out.”

“What, you don’t, like, think I’d make a great sorority girl?” she coos, pitching her voice high. “I could totally talk about nails and get my MRS degree and who slept with who in Alpha Rho!”

“Oh my god, what did you do to my girlfriend?”

Zayn laughs as Claire comes up behind Marta, pulls her into a hug. They’ve always been a bit of a study in opposites, since they started going out sophomore year and Zayn got conned into friendship with Claire too: Marta all delicate features and clearly first generation from Korea; Claire a tall broad brunette Amazon of a girl. But they fit, always have. “Don’t blame me.” Zayn holds up his hands. “She’s your responsibility.”

“I am,” Marta agrees, tipping her head back to kiss Claire’s cheek. “Did you see everything, babe? Can I take you around?”

“Of course. Zayn, I need to talk to you, I think we can keep that inch for Nate’s poem—”

“We don’t have an inch,” Zayn retorts. “Either the font needs to be smaller or he needs to cut something.”

“He’s not going to cut something.”

“Well—”

“Okay, no, come tell me how brilliant I am.” Marta takes Claire firmly by the arm and drags her away, Claire mouthing ‘we’ll talk’ over her shoulder. Zayn can’t help his smile, and he makes another slow circuit of the room.

He knows how nervous Marta was about her first showing this year, so he lingers, maybe not making proper small talk because that’s not his forte, but he talks to people when they talk to him, about Marta’s art or classes they share or have shared, drinks a few of the cups of wine Marta set out, and even chats with a couple kids he knows from the magazine or classes or other shit around school, until it’s done, and then he helps clean up because he doesn’t have anything better to do on a Thursday night other than go home and do his reading for his Kant seminar.

Finally, all the tables are put away and the garbage’s in the bin, and Zayn follows Claire and Marta upstairs.

“Thanks for your help,” Marta tells him, grinning. Her grin always looks a little too big for her face, in the best way. “You’re the best.”

“I know.”

She laughs, and rises up on her tip-toes to plant a smacking kiss on his lips. “Thanks babe.”

“Tell your girlfriend to stop hitting on me,” he complains to Claire, laughing. “I know I’m pretty, but she’s not my type.”

“I try, but you really are just so pretty,” Claire retorts, laughing as she wraps an arm around Marta’s waist, her hand slipping into Marta’s back pocket.

“I’ll let it go because this was great,” he tells Marta. “You smashed it, babe.”

“Didn’t I?” she grins, bouncing up on the balls of her feet with nervous energy. “It was awesome. I was amazing.”

“You certainly were.” Claire turns, hooks her other finger into Marta’s jeans so they’re face to face. “And you’re hot when you’re in artist mode.”

“Oh am I?” Marta giggles, and presses up to kiss her girlfriend.

Zayn rolls his eyes. Honestly. “I’ll be going, then.”

Marta separates long enough to call, “Bye!” before turning back to Claire.

It’s not—it’s not that Zayn wants that, really. He doesn’t not want that, but it’s not his priority. He just…it’s been almost a week since he had sex, and he’s had enough wine that he’s antsy, and he wouldn’t say no to that sort of contact. To someone’s hands on his ass, pulling him up into a kiss. Someone’s body against his, hot and hard. Someone’s cock—

Fuck it. It’s the wine, he decides, and pulls out his phone. There’s a solution to not being able to stop thinking about how Harry’s arms would look pinning him onto the bed.

_It’s zayn. You doing anything?_

Harry texts back almost immediately, which is flattering enough. _I have a feeling I’ll be doing you. I’m at the house._

God, sometimes Zayn hates himself. _I’ll be there in ten_ , he replies, and slips his phone back into his pocket.

Greek row is on the other side of campus, so he has to circle back around to get there. Claire and Marta are still where he left them, their foreheads pressed together. They don’t even pay attention to the wolf-whistle that echoes across the quad, as a pack of guys head from Greek Row probably to a bar.

Zayn ignores them too, shoving his hands into his pockets and tucking up his collar as he heads to Greek Row.

He can hear the noise in the house as he knocks on the door. It’s not the loud, thumping bassline of the place a few houses down, where there’s clearly a party going on, but the bass is still there, and there are some yells from inside. Because what else are you supposed to do on a Thursday night, he wonders, as he knocks.

The door’s pulled open. It’s not someone Zayn recognizes, probably a freshman from the air of enthusiasm around him.  “Yo.”

“Yo,” Zayn parrots, unable to help himself. “Harry here?”

The guy’s gaze seems to take in everything from his skinny black jeans to the oversized sweater he’d put on in defense of the slight fall chill. “Um, yeah,” he says, despite that, and steps back to let Zayn in. “He’s in the living room.”

“Great.” Because he couldn’t have the courtesy to meet Zayn at the door, of course.

Zayn follows the guy into the living room, where ten or so guys are draped over assorted couches and arm chairs, mostly oriented towards the game on screen—football, Zayn thinks. It smells a bit of beer and weed, and Zayn hesitates in the doorway.

“Who’s this?” It’s the big guy who asks, who’d been playing beer pong with the blonde. It gets at least the sharp-faced guy’s attention, who turns from the screen to Zayn.

“Hey.” He nods to Zayn, then yells, “Haz! Pretty hipster boy is here!”

“He’s got a name, Tommo.” That’s the ripped guy, who’d been pretty chill Sunday.

“Does Haz know it?” asks another guy Zayn doesn’t recognize, with sandy hair and a nose that looks like it’s been broken once.

“Shut up, McCarthy.” The sharp-faced guy pitches a pillow at him, and he lets out an oof as it hits, then throws it back. It goes wide, almost hits the big guy.

The TV goes to commercials, and the blonde turns to Zayn too. Now everyone’s looking at him, which isn’t his favorite position to be in, some place like here. Where is Harry? Part of the pros of just hooking up with someone is supposed to be you don’t have to deal with meeting their friends. “Want a beer?” he asks, grinning.

“I’m good. Where’s Harry?”

“Zayn!” Zayn turns around in time to see Harry’s grin, that’s more than a little smug. “Sorry. You took less time than I expected. Eager?”

“Were you getting yourself pretty for me?” Zayn retorts. Harry’s in jeans and a shirt that’s open down to his navel, and it should look weird and douchy but fuck if the glimpses of his chest aren’t hot. “You’re so sweet.”

“That’s our Harry, always sweet.” The big guy rumbles, and it gets a snort out of one of the boys.

Harry flips them off, then turns the full force of that dimpling grin on Zayn, his gaze doing the same survey the freshman had earlier, but with a heat to it that makes Zayn shiver. “So. Here for a reason?”

“Come on,” Zayn rolls his eyes, and lets Harry lead him upstairs.

\---

This time, significantly less drunk, he manages to leave after, with Harry sprawled out in bed watching him get dressed with that hot, heavy gaze. “I’m glad you texted.”

Zayn shrugs, pulling his sweater back on. “Glad you were free.”

“Always free for you, baby,” Harry grins, slow and lazy, and Zayn shoves his boots on with more force than necessary.

“Not your baby,” he says, yet again. “See you in class.”

“If you don’t booty call me sooner.”

“If you don’t booty call me sooner,” Zayn corrects, because he’s not going to break first this time, and pulls his hair back quickly before he heads out. Maybe he got Harry out from under his skin this time.

The game’s over, most of the guys gone to bed, but the sharp-faced guy wanders out of the kitchen just as Zayn opens the door.

“Have a good time?” he asks, with a wicked smile.

Zayn doesn’t see how it’s any of his business, so he just raises his eyebrows, gives him his most skeptical look. “Good enough,” he retorts, and shuts the door on the guy’s chuckle.

\---

It is Harry who breaks next. It’s a point of pride for Zayn, even if he dreams about pink lips on his cock and how Harry’s muscles move when he’s coming and how those arms would look holding Zayn up as he fucked him. So Zayn goes to class, and works on his thesis, and goes to magazine meetings and teases Claire about her girlfriend’s notoriety and teases Jawaad about the girl he’s still pining over. She’s cute, even Zayn can tell that, from the one time Jawaad pointed her out across the quad—a pretty blonde girl named Maria, with a light laugh and a bright smile as she talked with her friends.

He’s seen Harry in class, of course, and Harry’d given him a flirty smirk that Zayn had ignored in favor of doodling and actually listening to the TA, where Harry’d made a joke instead of answering the question posed to him. Because of course he hadn’t read that poem.

But he didn’t talk to Zayn then, or after class. Instead, he jogged out to meet ripped bro, and then they got into some sort of punching play fight that blocked the stairwell for a good three minutes before Zayn finally gave up on politeness and pushed by them, dodging the arm Harry seemed to have no control of.

“Sorry!” Harry yelled, as Zayn stalked down the stairs. Zayn didn’t bother to respond. He had a shit ton of reading to do.

So it’s not until Wednesday night that the call comes in. Zayn’s busy playing MarioKart with Jawaad, and he’s winning too, but generally it’s only his mum who calls him—even his dad and sisters text—so he pauses the game to check the ID. And then, well. The game’s already paused. And Harry’d given in first. 

“Zayn!” Harry’s clearly yelling, and Zayn makes a face at the unbridled enthusiasm. Jawaad gives him a teasing leer. Zayn flips him off. “You should come over.”

“How drunk are you?” Zayn asks, instead. “It’s a Wednesday. We have class in the morning.” He knows, because it’s the lecture they share. Though Harry hasn’t been there, the times when Zayn’s shown up.

“Not too drunk,” Harry laughs back. Zayn’s pretty sure he’s lying. “Not too drunk to get it up.” His voice goes low, just loud enough to be heard over shouting from behind him. “Come on, baby. Want you.”

“I’m not your baby,” Zayn snaps. “That’s not making me want to come over more.”

“But you do want to,” Harry says, all arrogance, and Zayn really hates that he’s right. That Zayn does want to go over. “Come on, Zayn. I’ve been thinking about this. Got me all worked up.”

“Yeah?” Zayn can’t help his smile. Serves him right. “What have you been thinking about?”

“Come over and I’ll show you.” Harry’s voice is a whisper, a promise. “I’ll get you loud enough the boys’ll all know what we’re doing.”

“I think they’ve got a pretty good idea,” Zayn says, but, fuck it. He’s getting worked up from this, from Harry’s promise, from thinking about it. Jawaad is laughing at him, but fuck him too. He’s not getting laid, he’s just pining. And Zayn thinks you’ve lost the right to laugh at someone when they’ve pulled your ass out of the fire more times than you can count. “But yeah. I’ll be there.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Harry purrs, and hangs up.

“I’m out. This doesn’t mean you win,” Zayn warns Jawaad, getting up off the couch. He’s going to a frat house and Harry’s drunk already, he doesn’t have to look good, but he still runs a hand through his hair, makes sure there aren’t any stains on his shirt. He’s got standards.

“Uh-huh,” Jawaad snorts. “You just go whenever he booty calls you, then?”

“Fuck off,” Zayn warns. 

“Just saying, do you and the sorority girls have a club?” Jawaad follows him into the bedroom, where he grabs his wallet and keys, then toes on his boots. “Paint each other’s nails?”

“Talk to me when you’re getting some regularly,” Zayn retorts. “Don’t wait up.”

\---

He dawdles on the way to Harry’s. It’s stupid, maybe, but he has some pride, and also he likes the idea of Harry waiting. Of Harry, with his confident smirks and how he walks like he owns the world and looks at Zayn like he owns him, waiting for Zayn, drunk and horny and desperate for him.

But still, the house isn’t far. It’s lit up when Zayn gets there—which makes sense, it’s barely eleven—but more surprisingly, Zayn can see people moving on the roof. A roof which, while mainly flat, has a fairly steep drop-off and is pretty clearly not meant for being on.

“Hi!” Comes a yell from up there, and Zayn looks up to see ripped bro waving, wildly enough it’s clear he’s drunk. “Pretty hipster boy, hi!” He turns around, to people crowded in the window. “It’s Harry’s pretty hipster boy!”

“Can’t get enough of Harry’s cock, can he?” a voice comes from inside, and Zayn rolls his eyes.

“I can see why he likes him though, you’re almost as pretty as Soph,” ripped bro goes on, peering over the edge. “I can see your eyelashes from here.”

“That’s great, mate.” Zayn’s trying not to be nervous for the boy peering over the edge, because he’s drunk and if he fell he’d probably break his neck, but he’s not making it easy. “Can I come in?”

“It’s open! Harry’s waiting for you.”

Zayn pulls open the door—then he can’t help it, he looks back up. Ripped bro was nice to him before, even if Zayn doesn’t appreciate being called as pretty as a girl. “Get inside before you fall,” he snaps, and heads in.

He ignores the boys crowded around the window at the far end of the hall to knock on Harry’s door. It’s yanked open in an instant. Zayn would be more amused if his mouth wasn’t suddenly so dry.

He’s just in basketball shorts, and he’s all legs and skin and muscles and that crooked smile, like he knows what Zayn’s thinking. He’s barefoot. There’s something about that that hits Zayn hard.

“Took you long enough,” Harry grins, with a hand on his wrist to pull him in.

Zayn takes a breath. Harry’s hot. He knows this. Harry knows this. It’s why he’s here.

“Why’s there a guy on your roof?” he asks, instead of climbing Harry, which is his first instinct. 

“What, Liam?’ Harry chuckles. “He’s seeing if he can throw cans into Alpha Rho’s attic. He’s got the best arm.” Of course it’s that.

“He’s going to fall.”

“He’s fine.” Harry takes a step forward, reaching around Zayn so he can shut the door behind him. It brings him right up close to Zayn, his arms on either side of him, so he’s pinned there. There’s a brief, fleeting flash of panic, left over from too many years of being pushed against lockers by white boys who were bigger than him—but Harry licks his lips, his eyes hot as he looks down Zayn’s body, and the panic’s subsumed by the heat that shivers through Zayn. “Now why are we talking about Liam?”

“Because I don’t want anyone to die while I’m in the house?” Zayn asks.

“You’ve always got something to say, don’t you?” Harry leans in, presses his thumb against Zayn’s lip, like he’s tracing it. Like he almost doesn’t know what he’s doing, in a way Zayn’s always loved. “So mouthy.”

“Yeah?” Zayn smirks himself, because turnabout’s fair play, and Harry’s close enough he can feel the weight of him, and Zayn came over here for a reason, and it has a lot to do with what’s under those shorts. “Are you gonna shut me up?”  

“I’ll make you forgot what words are,” Harry tells him, and closes the distance between them to kiss him.

\---

Harry’s gone again when Zayn wakes up. Probably for some sort of morning run, Zayn guesses, which sounds horrible but also like something he would do. And Zayn likes the results, so he figures he can’t really complain.

But he’s not going to wait around for Harry either. Last night was good, as always—great even, all four times of it—but he’s got places to be, he’s sure. And those places include somewhere other than a frat house.

He makes his way downstairs. There’s noise in the kitchen, but he ignores it. He doesn’t really want to deal with a bunch of hungover bros right now.

But before he can make his escape, a head pokes out into the hall—ripped bro. Who is, apparently, still alive, which is a vague relief.

He goes a bit red when he looks at Zayn, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Oh, good. You’re here.”

“Yeah.” Zayn crosses his arms over his chest. “Glad to see you didn’t break your neck.”

“What?” Ripped bro’s brow furrows, clearly in confusion, then he shrugs. “No, I’m fine. I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize?” Zayn didn’t know that was in his vocabulary.

“Yeah, like. I didn’t mean anything by that shit last night, like, catcalling or whatever. I’m just…I say stupid shit when I’m drunk. Soph always yells at me for it.”

It’s more than Zayn expected, even if it’s not entirely an apology, but ripped bro is clearly trying, so Zayn shrugs. “’s fine. You were busy throwing cans.”

“Yeah.” Ripped bro grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s an inviting smile, Zayn will give him that.

“We all good here?” Sharp-faced bro comes out of the kitchen too, slings an arm around Zayn’s shoulders. Zayn tenses, at the contact, but sharp-faced bro doesn’t seem to notice. There doesn’t seem to be anything untoward in it, either. “Apology accepted?”

“Yeah.” Zayn doesn’t know quite how to shrug him off, as he’s being steered into the kitchen. There is the smell of coffee there, which is good. “’s alright.”

“Good,” blonde bro says, from near the fridge. “Here, have coffee. Can’t send Haz’s fuckbuddy wandering around uncaffeinated.”

“Thanks.” Zayn takes the mug. He wonders how quickly he can drink it, to get him out of here.

“Never say the boys of Delta Chi don’t know hospitality,” sharp-faced bro announces. He slides onto a stool, and grabs a red bull off the counter. Zayn’s stomach turns just thinking of it.

“And, like. It’s the least I can do,” ripped bro adds.

“It’s not your fault, Liam,” sharp-faced bro puts in. “He is pretty.”

“Is this a thing, then?” Zayn asks, before he can stop himself. “Is this part of the gangbang initiation, or whatever, if you all think I’m so pretty?”

Ripped bro goes bright red, but blonde bro bursts into laughter, and sharp-faced bro gives him a slow, sharp smile that Zayn thinks is approving. “You wish.”

“What does Zayn wish?” Harry asks. He slaps Zayn’s ass as he passes him on the way to the fridge, then just laughs when Zayn glares at him. Zayn must have been right about the run, because he’s sweaty and his shirt is sticking to him, sweat making a dark v on his chest.

“That he could get his hands on my ass,” sharp-faced bro says, “Sorry though. My ass is not having anything up it, ever.”

“Your loss,” Zayn retorts. He knows he should keep his mouth shut, because these guys seem okay with Harry and him but who knows—the ‘pretty’ is still clearly coming with a ‘like a girl’ attached—but he’s not taking that. “Prostates aren’t just for gay guys.”

“And my ass is better than yours anyway,” Harry adds, winking at Zayn. It’s over the top and ridiculous and should not be charming. Zayn takes another sip of coffee, watching as Harry pulls some green things out of the fridge.

“Not as good as that chick Shawn got, at the Kappa party,” blonde bro puts in. “It was, fuck.”

“Probably what he did,” sharp-faced bro quips, and they all laugh. Zayn rolls his eyes, and takes another swig of his coffee. Classy.

Any more conversation is cut off by the whirr of the blender, as Harry mixes up something that looks a horrible green color. Zayn’s not even hungover, and it’s disgusting looking.

“What is that?” he demands. That’s just—no.

“It’s a kale smoothie! Well, it has kale, and avocado, and chia seeds, and some bananas because bananas make everything better.” Zayn gapes. He can’t help it. That sounds revolting. “It’s really good for you, do you want some?”

“Not in a million years.”

“Told you!” Sharp faced bro stabs a finger at Harry. “Told you it was disgusting. He’s taking your dick and he agrees.”

“It’s healthy, though,” ripped bro puts in, a hand on sharp-faced bro’s shoulder like he’s trying to calm him down. “You should try it, you’ll feel better.”

“As Zayn said, not in a million years. Nialler, you with me?”

Blonde bro toasts with his mug. “Smoothies aren’t a meal, bro. They just aren’t.”

“They’re healthy!”

“You can’t drink a meal,” Zayn argues. “It’s not a real meal. Where’s the satisfaction in it?”

“If you can’t chew, it’s no good. And kale. Kale is bullshit.” Sharp-faced bro agrees.  

“Kale is advertising convincing you something that tastes like shit is good for you so you eat it.” Zayn nods at sharp-faced bro. Maybe he’s not all bad.

“Also, it tastes gross, and doesn’t fix hangovers,” blonde bro agrees.

Harry just shakes his head, and sips his smoothie. “When you all die of heart failure and Payno and me are still alive, then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

“Us, because we’ll have enjoyed life,” blonde bro says. “I—”

The door opens, and another boy comes in, a hulking brunette who could definitely be on the football team, probably come from a class already, if his backpack has anything to say about it. He sees all five of them looking at him, and raises his hands. “What?”

“Kale, yes or no?” sharp-faced bro demands, and ripped bro sighs, as Harry laughs and settles against the counter next to Zayn’s stool, so their thighs are pushed together. He should smell awful, and he does, but there’s something enticing about it, masculine and solid and primal. Zayn takes another sip of coffee.

“In what setting?” the new bro asks, setting his backpack down. “Is this about Harry’s smoothies again?”

“They’re gross!”

“They’re not!” Harry insists. He’s leaning against the counter now, his hips cocked, and Zayn can actually see his cock through his shorts. “They’re healthy!”

“They really are. That’s worth some gross,” ripped bro says, nodding.

“Do you have to get changed?” Zayn mutters, to Harry. Harry stops paying attention to whatever sharp-faced bro says to look down at Zayn, his lips quirked.

“Yeah, and shower. Why?”

“Need help?”

It takes a second, but then it clicks, and Harry grins, both dimples appearing. “Could do, yeah.”

“Good.” Zayn stands up, sets the mug down, and Harry takes a last gulp of his smoothie.

“You keep arguing,” Harry tells sharp-faced bro, his hand closing around Zayn’s wrist. “I’ve got better things to do.”

“Better people, more!” blonde bro laughs, and sharp-faced bro wolf whistles as they head upstairs.

\---

“Are you doing work?” Harry demands. Zayn looks up from Harry’s bed to where Harry’s hovering in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. His face is a study in confused skepticism, as he looks at the computer open on Zayn’s lap. Zayn would think he’d know better, after a few weeks of fucking.

“No,” Zayn replies, and keeps typing. He doesn’t know why Marta thinks he’s qualified to give an opinion on her latest project, but he’s going to try his best, at least. And he needs to finish his thought. “And you were the one who needed to finish watching the match, or whatever.”

“Game,” Harry corrects, and crosses the room. Zayn might be typing, but he can still see Harry’s saunter, as he closes the distance between them, until he’s right in front of Zayn. “It was football, so a game.”

“Whatever. I still needed something to do. And I need to finish this, wait.”

“You’re on my bed. I don’t have to wait.” Harry leans over, so he can look at Zayn’s screen. “What is that shit, anyway?”

Of course. “That shit is my friend’s art.”

“That’s art?” Harry’s skepticism is clear, and he stops trying to crane over Zayn to drop onto the bed next to him.

“Yes.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Uh-huh.”

“It is!” Zayn insists. He turns the screen so Harry can see it, can see the golden words tapering off into swirls and hieroglyphs and barely comprehensible images. “It’s the failure of language, and canon—”

“And Ozymandias?” Harry asks. His hand’s on Zayn’s thigh, moving up, and it’s pretty clear he has no interest whatsoever in the conversation, but Zayn still gapes at him. “Whoever that is?”

“For I am Ozymandias, king of kings?” Zayn echoes the quote. “Come on, didn’t you read that in high school?”

Harry shrugs. “If we were supposed to, I didn’t.”

“It’s Shelley. You know, ‘look upon my works ye mighty, and despair’?” He shakes his head, when Harry’s look is still blank, other than the hand starting to make very distracting circles on his inner thigh. “Everyone knows that one.”

“I had better things to do in high school.” Zayn scoffs. He can’t actually be that illiterate. But Harry just smirks, and reaches over to shut the laptop. Zayn only just manages to get his fingers out in time. “Like getting laid.”

“Uh-huh,” Zayn snorts. “So much more important.”

“Much more important than looking at weird-ass art and reading poems by a bunch of dead guys about more dead guys,” Harry retorts. He pushes the laptop aside, then stops with any pretense of subtly to cup Zayn’s dick through his jeans. Zayn really, really hates that it’s working for him.

“Is that all you think I did in high school?” he asks, and slides his hands over Harry’s shoulders, pulling so that Harry will get with the program and properly straddle him.

“Did nerds do anything else?” Harry replies, and then his lips are on Zayn’s, kissing hard, so Zayn falls back rather than bothers trying to keep them upright. Harry catches himself before he falls on Zayn, bracing himself over Zayn so all Zayn can see are those stupid lips and his stupid arms. “What, like, you, I dunno, studied too, right?”

“Got pushed into lockers too.”

“Of course.” Harry kisses him again, his hips grinding into Zayn’s. “But you haven’t said you were getting laid.”

“Because I had better things to do,” Zayn replies, and Harry chuckles, deep in his chest, as he slides down Zayn’s body, until he’s got his jeans open.

“Better? Like what?” he asks, and then his mouth’s on Zayn and Zayn groans and grabs at the blankets, because Harry’s mouth is obscene and maybe it was all that getting laid in high school, but he really fucking knows what he’s doing.

Still, Zayn’s never let an argument go, and he manages to gather his thoughts even as Harry seems intent on sucking them out through his dick. “Like—reading, and learning about the world, and actually thinking about—fuck,” he moans, and Harry pulls off with a smug grin.

“What was that?”

“You’re such an asshole,” Zayn tells him, because he really fucking is, and he’s also wearing too many clothes. “Take your shirt off.”

“What? Maybe I was too busy getting laid and working out to understand what those words meant.”

Zayn shouldn’t be able to roll his eyes when he’s this turned on, but he does, somehow. “Maybe I was too busy being a nerd to suck your dick.”

Harry’s grin turns wicked then, and he’s back over Zayn, and Zayn’s shirt is somehow gone but he’s a bit distracted by how Harry’s lips are trailing over his skin.

“Oh, you wouldn’t have been,” he murmurs, and nips at Zayn’s ear, his hips still grinding lazily. “I’d have shown you a good time, baby. Opened your eyes to plenty of new worlds.”

“Not your baby,” Zayn corrects, and finally pulls off Harry’s shirt so he can feel the skin of his back, how his muscles move beneath Zayn’s hand, when Zayn’s hands run down to his ass. “And I didn’t need your worlds.”

“No, you’re sure you didn’t, aren’t you?” Harry’s mouth is on his stomach now, and he’s pushing at Zayn’s jeans as Zayn helps him slide them off. “So fucking sure you don’t.”

“Your dick’s not that magical.”

“No?” Harry’s cocks his head almost innocently, pausing as he’s easing Zayn’s legs open. “Then you don’t want it?”

God fucking damn it. “Shut up,” Zayn mutters, and Harry laughs, and gets down to business.

It’s so much better when he’s not talking, when Zayn doesn’t have to think, about who he is or what he’s doing.  When he can just concentrate on how Harry feels, his mouth around his cock and his fingers stretching Zayn open, until Zayn’s hands are clenching in the blankets and grinding back on his fingers so Harry will finally just hit his prostate, and then Zayn’s back arches as he groans.

“Come on, Harry, please,” he’s babbling, and he doesn’t even care he’s begging, he just wants more, now. “Hurry up.”

“You’re so much prettier when you’re begging then when you’re arguing,” Harry replies with a smile that’s leaning towards a leer, but he fumbles a little as he discards his pants, rolls on a condom. “Want to try hands and knees, this time?”

Zayn wants to try anything that’ll get Harry to actually fuck him, thank you very much, so he doesn’t protest, rolls over and grins into the mattress at Harry’s low oath. Then Harry’s cock’s pushing in, and Harry’s hands are on his hips, big enough to almost wrap around them, and Zayn’s smile dies as he holds back what he really hopes wasn’t a whine.

“I’m good,” he tells Harry though, when he pauses. “I’m good, just fucking—move.”

“Thought my dick wasn’t that magical,” Harry retorts, but he does start to move, hard and fast, and Zayn gets a hand on his own dick, because he can’t not. “You don’t need this, right? You’ve got your books.”

“Shut up,” Zayn repeats, “Just—fuck, please, please,” he devolves into, because Harry’s dick’s hitting his prostate and everything’s burning and his legs are shaking. “Please, come on, Harry, fuck.”

“God, Zayn, you’re so…” Harry’s moving faster, harder, and his voice is hoarse like he’s as lost as Zayn is. “So—fucking—” He comes on a groan that might be Zayn’s name, falling forward over Zayn to mouth as his neck as he keeps thrusting into Zayn, riding out the last of it.

Zayn keeps jerking himself off, chasing frantically after it, when Harry knocks his hand away, wraps his own hand around Zayn’s dick. His hand’s big and a bit rough and it thumbs over the head just right and he’s—so—

“Go on, Zayn,” Harry murmurs, his voice low and dark, then he’s kissing Zayn and he twists his hand and the orgasm crashes over him, any sounds he wants to make swallowed by Harry’s mouth and he keeps moving his hand, eking out the pleasure.

Harry’s the one who moves first, pulling out of Zayn to go throw away the condom and wipe his hand on something in the laundry pile. He brings back whatever it is—a washcloth, thank god—and tosses it at Zayn, who cleans himself off, rolling over as Harry lies back on the bed next to him. He’s just so hot, with bits of sweat on his skin, his hair messy, his lips swollen. It’s really not okay.

Harry smirks lazily, as he catches Zayn watching, but it turns into a yawn, and he slides down on the bed. “You gonna stay for a nap?”

“I don’t know, do you let nerds nap in your bed?”

“The ones who look like you.” Harry retorts without heat, and runs a hand back through his hair. “I don’t fuck with the not hot ones.”

“I’m so honored.”

“You should be.” Harry reaches out, wraps his hand around the back of Zayn’s head, and brings him close for a kiss. He’s a good enough kisser Zayn forgets to protest the words.

\---

And so it goes. Zayn spends more time at the frat house than he’d ever expected, but given that it’s for great sex, he doesn’t find he minds, that much. Even if Jawaad still makes fun of him whenever he goes, and that Claire and Marta saw him one time when he’d been coming from Greek row and pestered him until he told them who he was hooking up with and then gave him judgy looks. They don’t know how lucky they are to have each other, and Jawaad’s still inching slowly into Maria’s good graces. They don’t have any room to judge.

And it’s not all bad, Zayn finds. Most of his time is, admittedly, spent in Harry’s bed—or against his wall, or in the shower—but he can’t spend all his time there. There’s also the times when he’s supposed to meet Harry at the house and he beats him there, or when Harry’s passed out and he needs to leave but is caught by the boys, when Zayn’s somehow conned into a game of Call of Duty with them, or one of the many arguments about nothing that they seem to get into all the time. And yeah, they’re not exactly who Zayn usually hangs out with—Zayn’s fairly sure they legitimately did not know comedic was a word, and that sort of thing happens enough that he occasionally doubts their literacy—but it’s not all bad. They’re chill, and they’re often drunk but often funny with it, and Zayn never thought he’d be so comfortable in a frat house, but he is.

Also, the sex. The sex is a big plus.

\---

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Harry smirks when Zayn stretches. He feels like he could purr, honestly, so he’ll let Harry smirk. He deserves it. It’s pretty impressive, that even after a month of fucking, it’s still so good. Not a one trick pony, Harry Styles. “See? Wasn’t it worth a nooner?”

“Is it still a nooner if I only just left my apartment?” Zayn retorts. He hadn’t been expecting Harry to text him so early—by which he meant eleven—but he wasn’t going to say no to a nice way to wake up. Nothing to get you through a two hour seminar with the driest professor on the faculty like having had great sex.

“It’s noon, it’s a nooner.” Harry reaches over Zayn to grab his phone, to show that is in face 12:08. “Nooner.”

“You just want to brag you had a nooner,” Zayn accuses, and Harry shrugs.

“Who can blame me? You’re pretty. I like to brag about you.”

Zayn’s eyebrows go up. “You better not be kissing and telling. If I show up on some sort of rankings board…”

 Harry’s nose wrinkles at that. “What, rankings? Like, of who’s hottest?”

“I dunno, of the people you guys hook up with.”

“First of all, that’s gross, we don’t do that.” Harry sets his phone back down, then rolls, so he’s sitting over Zayn’s thighs, grinning down at him as he traces the lips on his chest. “Second, you’d definitely win.”

“I’d better,” Zayn agrees. Harry’s tracing over the wings now, down the gun on his side. “Fuck, Harry, no. I’ve got to get to class.”

“You’ve got forty-five minutes. That’s enough time.” Harry murmurs, his voice going low and hot, as he leans down to press a kiss to Zayn’s neck.

Zayn’s head tilts back, but he puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders. Definitely to push him away. “I’ve got to get home and shower first.”

“You can shower here.” Now Harry’s kissing at the other side of his neck, just enough bite to make Zayn melt, like Harry’d figured out very early on. “We can shower together.”

“I have to get a book from the library, I have to—fuck,” he swears, as Harry reaches down to stroke his cock. “No, I actually have to go to class.”

“Fine,” Harry huffs. Zayn can’t quite help his pout when Harry moves away from him. He needs to get to class, but Harry always feels good over him. “What book do you need?”

“It’s, um. Something like the _Creative Paranoia in Gravity’s Rainbow_? It’s by Mark Siegal.” Zayn pushes himself up on his elbow as he watches Harry grab a piece of paper, apparently writing it down. “What the fuck, Harry?”

“You need the book. I can get it for you. Who’s the author?”

Zayn tells him, watching as Harry opens the door, apparently not caring he’s naked. Zayn can’t say he cares much either. But is Harry expecting to go get his book naked? It’s flattering, but unnecessary. Also, he thinks the library might have something to say about it, not that he’s sure Harry’s ever set foot in a library.

“Hey, Michael!” Harry calls, though. Through the door, Zayn can see a kid he’s seen around the house recently—a freshman, he thinks—come thumping up the stairs. He shakes out his blonde hair, grins excitedly at Harry.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have time to go get a book from the library for Zayn?” Zayn’s eyes narrow. What’s he doing?

“Yeah, of course!” Michael bounces on his feet. “What book? Do I need to bring it back here, or should I bring it to his class, or what?”

“Bring it back here. He doesn’t have anywhere to be.” Harry throws a smile over his shoulder at Zayn that can’t be classified as anything but hungry. “Thanks, Michael.”

“No problem, sir! Harry. Sorry.” Michael laughs nervously.

“If you could get back here in half an hour, that’d be great. Just leave it outside the door if it sounds like we’re busy.” Zayn can’t see Harry’s face, but he thinks he can tell he’s smiling. Michael gives a knowing grin, that quickly sews itself back up into respect.

“Yeah, ‘course. I’ll head out now.”

“Thanks, bro.” Harry shuts the door again as Michael runs off, turns back to Zayn. “There. Now you don’t have to go anywhere.”

“What, so you’re just ordering him around?” Zayn asks. Harry looks really good naked like that, but still. He hadn’t meant for Harry to do that. To make the kid do that.

Harry shrugs. “He’s a pledge, it’s what he’s here for.” He’s pacing back towards the bed, his hand circling Zayn’s ankle, drawing a line up his thigh.

“Slave labor?” Zayn retorts. He doesn’t approve of this. He doesn’t. Even if it gets him another round.

“Nah, like. It’s just hazing.” Harry, apparently sensing they aren’t starting right away, sits down on the bed instead of on Zayn.

“Oh, just hazing.” Zayn snorts. “And you’re cool with that?” Sometimes, it’s easy to forget what Harry is, when they’re in bed together and Harry runs a hand through Zayn’s hair to untangle it, almost tender, or when he makes a stupid joke and Zayn has to hit him as the only response.

“It’s nothing bad. We’re not making them do anything harmful, or even that annoying.” Harry shrugs again. “And it’s, you know. Bonding. Bonds the pledge class together especially. Some of the older brothers made us wash their cars, and like, me and Lou and Liam and Niall got into a massive water fight and that’s why the four of us are so close, among the brothers. That’s the whole point of it all. Makes us brothers, for real. ”

“So that’s what this is? Making Michael get my book is bonding him with what, the library?” It almost makes sense, the way Harry puts it. But still. It’s not—it is just using the freshmen for labor, or whatever, and it’s not…right. Or something.

“No. This is me using all the resources at hand so I can come again before class,” Harry says, chuckling predatorily, and moves so he’s on top of Zayn again, smirking down at him, his hair falling around his face. He looks stupidly arrogant and stupidly hot, and it might not be right but it doesn’t seem harmful and also Zayn really wants his stupidly big hands on him again, so he grabs his hair and pulls him down to kiss him.

\---

He makes sure to thank Michael when Michael knocks tentatively on the door, half an hour later. Harry’s still in the shower, because Louis’d yelled at them when he’d seen them both heading towards the shower that house rules was no sex in places they all had to use, so Zayn had showered first and now he was doing his hair. He pulls on his jeans, because he’s not as shameless as Harry, and pulls open the door.

“Oh, hey! I was just gonna put it here.” Michael holds the book out. It is indeed the right book, Zayn thinks, and takes it. His cheeks are flushed red, but he doesn’t look any worse for wear. And this is a lot easier than going to get the book himself.

“Thanks.” Zayn looks at the book, then at Michael.

“What I’m here for.” Michael gives a cheerful salute, and turns to run down the stairs. He pauses on the landing, turns back. “Just, um. Could you make sure to let Harry know I did it? And to return the book on time? It’s under my name, so I don’t want any late fees…”

Oh, freshmen. “Yeah, ‘course,” Zayn nods, and Michael gives another grin before he runs downstairs.

“This is a nice sight to come back to,” Harry says, coming down the hall the other way. He just has a towel around his waist, and water’s dripping from his hair down his hard chest and over his abs and down the line of his hipbones. Zayn swallows. Speaking of nice sights. “Are you standing out here to show all the other brothers what they’re missing?”

“You know me, always trying to tempt people to the gay side.” Zayn nods, following Harry back inside. “Just trying to prove any homophobia hypocritical.”

Harry pauses, looks up with a wrinkle between his eyebrows. “None of the guys have given you a hard time, have they?”

It makes Zayn smile despite himself. “No.” No hard times. Sometimes, he doesn’t think they listen to what they say, calling each other fags or making jokes about Zayn as a girl, but it’s better than what he expected.

“Good.” Harry’s shameless as he drops his towel, rummaging for boxers. It’s a very nice show, and Zayn doesn’t pretend he isn’t looking while he pulls his tank top on. “Michael get you your book?”

“Very promptly. Give him a credit, or whatever he gets.” Harry’s found his boxers, and Zayn pulls on his flannel overshirt. His hair’s still messy, but that’s all he can do without the products he likes. “Seems like a good kid.”

“It’s a good crop of pledges, yeah.” Harry tugs on sweatpants, and now the show really is over, so Zayn reaches down to stick the book in his backpack. He glances at his phone, while he’s at it; there’s a text from Jawaad, asking him if he’s coming home tonight and if so, if he can look at an outfit to see if it’s good to go on a study maybe-a-date with Maria, and another from Claire asking if he wants to go to the poetry reading tonight. He responds to both of them in the affirmative, then checks to make sure he really does have everything for class then a meeting with his advisor about his thesis.

Harry’s hands on his hips distract him from his mental count of books he needs to impress his advisor. Zayn loves Harry’s hands, he’s decided, almost as much as his arms. “Why do you have to go to class?” he pouts. When Zayn straightens up, turns so he can look at Harry, his lower lip is jutting out. “Can’t you just skip like normal people?”

Zayn laughs and rolls his eyes, then tugs on one of Harry’s curls. “Not all of us can be rich white boys.”

Harry’s mouth opens, then closes, and his eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

It’s not worth it, to get into it now, when Zayn really does need to leave to get to class. “’s just a fact. I’m busy tonight,” he warns, stepping away from Harry. “So don’t bother booty calling me when you’re drunk.”

“What about sexting?” Harry asks, letting it go, and Zayn just snorts and leaves him in his room as he heads to class.

\---

Zayn is drunk. Really drunk, properly drunk, despite only being two drinks in. He has been feeling a little off all week, so maybe drinking wasn’t the best idea, but that was probably just him marathoning to get all his work done and he’d just turned in an outline of his thesis and he deserved to get drunk with his friends.

“No, you’re—no,” he insists, and he knows he might be slurring a bit but he has to tell everyone this. “Kant’s just some rules obsessed weirdo, he didn’t know fuck all about the world. You can’t just, he’s not the be all and end all.”

“But you can’t deny that he’s the basis for all western philosophy since then!” Claire insists, waving her wine glass. Marta, half in her lap and half in the booth, laughs up at her. “Hegel worked off of him, then everyone works off of Hegel.”

“So look at non-western philosophy!” Zayn takes a last sip of his wine, before setting it down so he can use his hands properly to express his point. “You’ve got plenty of that, we aren’t as obsessed with making rules. Fucking categorical imperatives. You can’t use that, really.”

“So what do you want to use? Aristotle?”

“I think we should use another round,” Jawaad interrupts. He’s been staring morosely into his whiskey soda all night, probably still depressed because he saw Maria with some overly muscled guy earlier, and he thinks it’s a date. He needs to cheer up, Zayn thinks, and tips himself over into his cousin’s lap.

“You shouldn’t pine,” he tells Jawaad, seriously. Jawaad shouldn’t be sad. It’s his job to make sure he isn’t. “You’re worth twelve of whoever else she’s seeing. And if she’s worth anything, she’ll know that.”

Jawaad rolls his eyes. “You’re so sappy drunk.”

“He’s right, though,” Marta agrees, stabbing her finger at Jawaad. “You’re a catch, babe.”

“And you don’t like men, so what do you know?” he retorts, then runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry, I just—I thought she liked me.”

“Well, I do like men, and I know you’re a catch,” Zayn informs him. It’s shit, is what it is, that no one recognizes how cool Jawaad is.

“You’re my cousin, you have to think that. I can hear Auntie Trisha coming out of your mouth.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.” Zayn manages to right himself, so he can look somewhere straight into Jawaad’s eyes. Jawaad needs to get this. He has to make his cousin understand. “You’ll find someone you don’t have to pine over someday.”

“What, like your frat bro?” Jawaad retorts, “That’s what you call a solution?”

“Hey.” Zayn draws back. That was uncalled for. “He’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t say things like you know what it’s like to be in love while you’re just fucking around,” Jawaad snaps. He’s so fucking moody when he’s drunk.

“I’ve been in love,” Zayn mutters. He has been. He’s just not this time. He’s fucking someone without feelings involved, and that’s okay, that’s college, that’s a way for both of them to get laid and he doesn’t need more. Well, he doesn’t dislike Harry, really, and he’s not as much of an asshole as Zayn had thought, and maybe in a weird way they’re friends, even though he’s sort of symbolic of everything Zayn hates about the world, but he’s not in love. They’re just fucking. And it’s so good…

“You’ve never had to work for it, though,” Jawaad’s hand waves. “You’re just—people look at your face and they’re in love. You don’t know what it’s like for it to be unrequited.”

Zayn blinks. The fuck? “You’re straight,” he says, because—does Jawaad not realize how much easier that makes everything? Does he not realize how much easier he’s had everything? “Don’t come fucking complaining to me about how it’s hard to be you.”

“No, he’s got a point, you’re gorgeous, though,” Marta inserts, her voice calming. “I don’t like guys and I’m attracted to you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Jawaad’s good looking too.”

“Well, Plato says—”

“Foul!” they all cry, and Claire rolls her eyes. “I was just gonna say, your soulmate—”

“No, that’s a foul,” Jawaad announces, and Marta shoves at her shoulder. “First to mention Plato has to get the next round, go on.”

“We’re talking about soulmates, how am I not supposed to?” Claire complains, but she scoots out of the booth anyway.

“I’ll go with you.” Marta slides out after her, wraps an arm around Claire’s waist that’s probably half holding herself up, and half an excuse to squeeze Claire’s ass in her tight jeans. “I need to show you off a little.”

“Maybe I want to show you off,” Claire grins down at Marta. Zayn makes a gagging sound that has Marta giggling before he starts coughing as they walk away.

“You okay?” Jawaad asks. Zayn shakes his head, and tries to finish his wine before he realizes there’s nothing left in it.

“Yeah, fine. Just a cough.” He pauses, then. “Sorry. But, for real. If she wants some meathead more than you, she deserves him.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jawaad gives his empty glass another moody look, and Zayn gives up. If he wants to sulk, he can. Zayn’s drunk and happy and he’s feeling good about the world, about everything. He’s feeling plenty good, but he could be feeling better, so he pulls out his phone, sends a text.

He’s almost forgot about it by the time the girls get back, with drinks in hand, and he and Marta start arguing over whether hieroglyphics are art or writing. They’re halfway through their drink by the time Zayn’s pocket buzzes and he pulls it out.

 _Chilling at the house_ Harry’s replied to his _what are you doing?_ It is a Thursday night, after all. Not a big party night, Zayn supposes, if you haven’t just turned something in that will help determine your future. _You should come by ;)_  

“I’ve got to go,” Zayn tells them, and slides his phone back into his pocket.

“Booty call?” Marta asks, toasting him. “To free love!”

“No love involved,” Zayn retorts, getting up. “We said that.”

“Did you want to hook up tonight? Because you could here,” Claire points out, gesturing around. “Those are your hooking up jeans. I figured you were waiting for one of them.” She gestures around, to the various guys around.  

She’s not lying. They are his hooking up jeans, the black ones with rips all the way to his thighs. And he had sort of considered finding someone here—the Black Dragon isn’t a gay bar per se, but it’s not gay unfriendly, and this close to campus there’s plenty of guys around—but this is easier. No flirting, no pretense. Just hooking up.

“Yeah, but this only takes a text,” he points out. “I’ll see you all later.”

“I won’t wait up,” Jawaad informs him, and Zayn sticks out his tongue.

The house is all lit up when he gets there. Ashton, another of the pledges, lets him in, and he doesn’t even give Zayn a look when he does. “Hey!” he grins. All of the pledges are almost unnaturally cheerful. Zayn doesn’t trust it. “Harry’s out on a beer run, actually. He’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“Of course he is,” Zayn mutters, but he goes in, wanders towards the living room, where plenty of noise is.

Apparently ‘chilling’ means the house is full. It’s not party full, but Zayn spots all the brothers he knows, and there are shot glasses and a bottle of tequila on the table, and bass is pounding, and most of the people are gathered around a table playing poker as Zayn comes in.

“Zayn! My favorite!” Niall yells as Zayn comes in. “Come be my lucky charm, Liam’s got Sophia, it’s not fair.”

Sophia nods from Liam’s lap. Zayn’s seen Liam’s girlfriend around a few times, and she’s not bad. A sorority girl, but at least without her sisters her voice never takes on that pitch that makes him shudder. She seems classy, at least.

“Need me to blow on the deck?” Zayn asks, wandering over.

“He’s lying. Luck of the Irish, that one has,” Louis retorts. “He’s owning all of us. Cleaning me out.”

“You’ve just never learned to bluff,” Niall retorts. “Okay, whose deal?”

“Mine.” Liam takes the deck, holds it up to Sophia, who blows on the cards, before Liam starts to deal.

Zayn perches on the couch to watch them. He wishes he had that much money to burn, that he could be betting twenties. Still, he leans over Niall’s hand, looks at it. He’s always had a decent poker face.

Niall bets lower than Zayn would, conservative for the queen in his hand, and it keeps going until Liam starts hemming and hawing over his last bet. Zayn has another beer in hand now, handed it by one of the pledges when he got Niall and Louis some more. He hopes Harry will come back soon. This is fun and all, and the banter’s amusing enough in a plebian sort of way, but he’d much rather be getting his cock sucked.

“Stop being so gay, just bet already!” Louis snaps, as Liam hesitates again.

Zayn makes a noise, half a snort—of course—and half a protest. Louis glances at him. “What?”

“Just, I’d’ve bet already,” Zayn says, meeting Louis’s eyes. Maybe it’ll get him beat up, but he’s a little too drunk to care. “Don’t go calling not betting gay.”

“I didn’t mean anything,” Louis mutters. “He just needs to bet.”

“Yeah, well. White boys are all indecisive. So don’t hold your breath.” Zayn pushes himself off the couch. Fuck, he’s too drunk for this. Where’s Harry?

“We aren’t!” Liam protests, and pushes a few chips into the center.

Zayn just rolls his eyes. “That wasn’t even remotely the point.”

“Then what—”

“Are you terrorizing the boys again?” Harry asks, coming in to throw an arm around Zayn’s waist, pull him back into him. “You need to stop doing that when I’m not around to save them.”

“And how are you planning to save them?” Zayn asks, but Harry’s body is nice and warm and distracting, and he’s too drunk to properly care.

“Distract you,” Harry retorts. He sets down the six-pack he was holding, turns Zayn around. He could pout, Zayn supposes, could be annoyed at the boys, but he didn’t expect better. “Give you something else to do with your mouth.”

“That’s a tired line,” Zayn tells him. Harry grins, dimple deep in his cheeks, and pushes at his hair so his hat fall back a little.

“Did it work?”

“Yes, please, take him away,” Louis snaps, “Apparently we can’t trash talk anymore.”

“Calling someone gay isn’t trash talking,” Zayn says. He tries to turn around again, but Harry doesn’t let him, sliding his hands from his hips down to his ass. “It’s not,” he repeats.

“No, it’s not,” Harry agrees quietly, glancing over his shoulder. But then he leans in, and his voice is warm on Zayn’s cheek as he nips at his ear. “But you could argue with them, or we could be fucking.”

It’s a good point. “Okay then,” Zayn agrees. Whatever. Frat bros will be frat bros, and it’s not his job to educate them. “Better make it worth my while then.”

“Get a room!” Someone shouts, and Zayn’s hit in the back with a pillow.

“We plan to,” Harry retorts, and Zayn throws the pillow back at the couch, where he suspects it came from, before heading upstairs.

\---

Zayn’s cold. So cold, which is weird because he normally runs pretty hot, but he’s so cold and his head is pounding, even though he didn’t drink enough to get him a hangover. He pulls at the blankets, trying to get more. 

“Zayn?” There’s a tap on his shoulder, and Zayn groans and curls into himself. His head aches. His whole body aches, and not in the fun way, and he’s cold. “You okay?”

Zayn can’t even think of the words. He grabs the blankets again and pulls them up, hoping to get more warmth that way. He just wants to go back to sleep.

The hand on his forehead feels cool, even though Zayn’s shivering, but somehow it’s nice, gentle in the touch. “Shit, you’re burning up.” The bed creaks, and Harry must be getting out. Harry. Right. Zayn fell asleep at the frat last night, he needed—

“I can go,” he mutters, and uncurls himself with another groan that might be more of a whimper. He doesn’t want to open his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid.” The hand’s not on his forehead anymore, smoothing over his hair instead, so gentle that Zayn could almost imagine it’s his mum’s, back home when he was sick. “Go back to sleep.”

Zayn should protest, he knows, but he’s tired and maybe just keeping his eyes closed will make the headache go away.

\---

The next time he wakes up, his head’s marginally clearer, but he’s still freezing, and his whole body hurts. Shit. He hasn’t been sick in ages, but he hates the feeling. Of his brain not working, of his body not working. Of feeling so helpless.

“Hey.” Harry’s hand is on his shoulder, as Zayn tries to sit up. He doesn’t know what time it is, but Harry’s dressed, more or less, in the gym shorts and t-shirt he wears around the house, his hair caught behind his baseball cap, and his eyes are big and worried as he pushes Zayn back onto the bed. “Don’t sit up. Here, have some water.”

Zayn takes the glass, sips. The water’s cool and smooth in his throat, soothing. “Thanks,” he croaks, and looks around. He’s still in Harry’s room, and the curtains are drawn but the sunlight’s peeking through around them, and the clock on the dresser says it’s eleven. Fuck, he has class—

“I’ve got to—”

“No,” Harry says firmly, taking the glass back and putting it on the bedside table. “You don’t need to go to class. Take some Advil, here.”

Zayn’s brain is too fuzzy not to take the pills Harry puts in his hand, swallow them down. But he knows this is not fuck buddy etiquette, that Harry didn’t sign on to this, and that he’s still so cold especially the parts of him not under the blankets, and he just wants to sleep until all this goes away.

“Good. That’ll be better in a bit.” Harry sits down on the bed next to Zayn. He should be kicking Zayn out, maybe making him wash these sheets, because who the fuck gets sick in their fuck buddy’s bed?

The walk home sounds like the worst thing in the world, especially compared with the warmth of the bed that still isn’t quite enough, even with the extra blanket that appeared there, but Zayn knows what he has to do. And it’s better, he has—a paper, he thinks. Work. Magazine? He knows there’s something. Somehow, he forces himself to sit up. “I’ll get out of your hair, sorry.”

“Don’t be stupid.” For a third time, Harry pushes him gently back down onto the bed. “You’re staying here, you’re too sick to walk home.”

“But I need—”

“We’ll get what you need,” Harry informs him. His hand’s on Zayn’s temple now, rubbing at them in a way that has Zayn melting back into the bed in relief. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll have someone get it. But you’re staying here.”

Zayn should argue, he knows. He can take care of himself, always has, and he shouldn’t be here. But the bed’s warmer than outside, and he aches, and Harry’s hand feels good against his skin. “Just, clothes? And my computer. And, I need to read for my Dostoyevsky class, _The Brothers Karamazov_ should be—somewhere. Jawaad knows.”

“Okay. Key’s in your jeans, right? We’ll get it.” Harry gets up, and the noise Zayn makes isn’t a whine. Or if it is, it’s because he’s sick. Harry lets him pretend he doesn’t notice, digging in his dresser. Zayn’s too miserable to even think about his ass, which is saying something. “Here, for now, you can wear these.” He throws something on the bed—sweatpants and Delta Chi sweatshirt, Zayn sees. He doesn’t even care, they look warm, and he drags himself out of bed to pull them on over his boxers. They are warm—too big, so the sweatshirt hits his knuckles and he has to tie the drawstring on the pants as tight as they can go—but warm, and they smell a bit like Harry, which shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.

Harry’s giving him an odd look, his head tilted as Zayn pauses in the act of climbing back into bed. “What?” Zayn demands, trying for sharp. He’s too stuffy for it though, so it just ends up croaky.

Harry shakes his head, running a hand through his hair as he looks away. The uncertainty is weird on him, but Zayn’s more concerned with the bed right now. “Nothing. Go back to sleep. I’ll send Ashton off for your computer.”

“Tell him not to mess it up or touch anything,” Zayn orders, “And that you get the key back, and—”Harry laughs, and leans over to smooth his hair out of his face again.

“Okay, Zayn. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried, I’m instructing.”

“Okay, baby.”

“Not your baby,” Zayn mutters, but it’s hard to be angry when his head’s a mess and with the blankets and Harry’s clothes he’s finally warm.

“No, you aren’t,” Harry agrees, for once without his smirk. “Go to sleep.”

Zayn’s never needed telling twice with that.

\---

When he wakes up again, Harry’s sitting at a desk, his computer open and what looks like a word document on the computer. Zayn’s feeling a bit better—the Advil must have kicked in, so he’s not shivering so much, and his head’s clearer—but he still feels like the lowest circle of hell. How long has Harry let him sleep here?

“Hey,” he rasps, pushing himself up on one arm. Harry turns around in his chair, and grins, all his dimples showing.

“Hey!” he hits a key on the computer, probably saving it. “Feeling better?”

“A bit.” Zayn pushes his hair back, scrubbing his hand over his face. He just feels gross. Now Harry will never want to have sex with him again, clearly. “What are you working on?”

“Thesis.” Harry gives the computer a shrug, then gets up to walk over to the bed. His hand’s still so cool on Zayn’s forehead, and he can’t help but sigh into it. God, he loves Harry’s hands. “You’re still warm, I think. Tommo’s mom is a nurse, she said you probably just have a twenty-four hour fever, it’s been going around.”

Zayn blinks. That’s a lot. “You asked Louis’s mom?”

“Of course.” Harry’s hand lingers on Zayn’s skin, or maybe Zayn’s imagining it.  Whichever it is, it feels nice. “Your computer and book are here.” He pats the bedside table, where indeed, Zayn’s computer is there. “I’ll be right back.”

His hand slips away, and then he does, the door closing behind him.

Zayn groans. He opens his computer, to check his email, see how much class he missed and how much he’s going to have to make up, but just looking at the backlight hurts his eyes, and he sets it aside. Instead, he puts on his glasses and picks up his Dostoyevsky. That hurts his head too, but it always does.

Harry comes back in a moment later, after Zayn’s managed maybe a page, carrying a bowl of soup. Zayn’s not sure he’s ever seen a kind of food that didn’t come out of a drug store bag or a microwave here, but it definitely looks like soup, and it smells like it too, as Harry comes closer to sit on the edge of the bed again.

“Jay—that Louis’s mom—said we should keep giving you fluids, and soup is always good.” He sets it on the bedside table. “You should have some.”

Zayn gives it a skeptical look. It smells good, warm, but… “Where’d you get it?”

Harry shrugs. “I made it.” When Zayn blinks at him again, he gives a little smile, almost sheepish. “What, I can cook sometimes.”

“Uh-huh.” The first spoonful Zayn takes he’s wary about, but it tastes as good as it smells and looks. “This is good.”

“I do have some skills,” Harry agrees, a shade away from smug. “Did we get everything you need? Your—cousin, right? He threw in some extra things he said you’d forget.”

“Yeah.” That explains the glasses, then. “Thanks.”

“No problem. I made the pledges do it.” Harry reaches out, pushes at the glasses on Zayn’s nose. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“Only sometimes. I think Jawaad thought they’d help with the headache.” Zayn wrinkles his nose at Harry, when he pokes at the bridge again. “What?”

“They’re cute.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re cute,” Harry teases, and Zayn’s feeling too gross to pout, or feel cute. “Not that, I mean, you’re sick and all. But you’re cute too.”

“’m not cute,” Zayn protests, and takes another sip of his soup. It’s warming him up from the inside as much as the blankets and sweatshirt are from the outside.

“You’re very cute,” Harry informs him, and dodges Zayn’s half-hearted swipe at him easily.

“Really? This a kink of yours? Me being sick and miserable?”

“Definitely my thing,” Harry agrees solemnly, holding his deadpan for a second before his lips curve into a smile. 

Zayn rolls his eyes. “What’s your thesis about,” he asks instead, because he needs something else to say. They haven’t—well, they’ve talked before, but usually only before or after sex. He’s not sure what to do with this aimless flirting, unless Harry really does want sex right now, which is definitely not going to happen. “Actually, what’s your major?”

“History.” He doesn’t seem offended Zayn didn’t know, but then again, this is the first time Zayn’s seen Harry doing work at all. But of course it’s history. “My thesis is on the English Civil War and its ramifications on American law.”

“And what are those?” Zayn asks. But it sounds…real. Realer than what Zayn expected, anyway.

“Fuck if I know. But it’ll sound good enough to get me into law school.”

“Law school?”

“That’s the plan,” Harry agrees. He watches as Zayn has another spoonful. “Oh, and Ashton said you need to check in with your roommate, he wasn’t convinced they weren’t just stealing all your stuff.”

“My cousin,” Zayn corrects, and sets aside the soup to pick up his phone. The ache isn’t as bad with that backlight, though he doesn’t think he’ll want to stare at it long. There are two texts from Claire, then four from Jawaad. Claire’s are just _where are you?_ and then _Jawaad said you were sick, feel better, I’ll nag you about it later_. Jawaad’s start with a _lunch?_ check in then go to _why is there a random bro in our apartment?_ to _I gave them things if they stole them it’s on you_ to _let me know if you need anything_. Zayn just hopes he didn’t tell his mom, he doesn’t want to worry her. She already thinks he isn’t taking good enough care of himself.

He sends Jawaad a quick check in text, confirming that he’s sick and they haven’t kidnapped him or stolen anything—he thinks—and to stop worrying.

“Why should he stop worrying?” Harry asks.

“Don’t look over my shoulder,” Zayn tells him, but given that he’s in Harry’s bed wearing his clothes and drinking soup he made him, he doesn’t think he has a lot of right to snap. “And ‘cause, like. I’m the one who worries over him, he shouldn’t be worrying over me.”

“And it can’t go both ways?” Harry’s looking at him intently, like he’s actually waiting for an answer, not like he just needs to make conversation while they can’t be having sex, so Zayn shrugs.

“I’m the oldest boy cousin, it‘s my job to look after the younger ones,” Zayn explains. It’s weird to even articulate. He hasn’t had to since his dad talked to him when he was five. It’s just a part of him now. “It’s what I do. Especially Jawaad, he’s, like, my best friend and my little brother tied up together.”

Harry’s giving him an odd look again, not the heated one he gets right before he wants to fuck Zayn, but something almost confused. “What?” Zayn demands, testy suddenly. He picks up the soup again, to have something to do with his hands. “Don’t you have family?” He remembers Harry talking about a sister, he thinks, and a mum and stepdad.

“Yeah, an older sister, but—I’m the baby, I guess.” Harry grins sheepishly. “I’m the one worried over. How many cousins do you have?”

“A lot,” Zayn knows he’s smiling, but it’s what he does when he talks about his family. “I mean, there’s me and my sisters—there’s four of us—then there’s the actual cousins, like, my mom and dad’s siblings’ kids, then there’s the ones who are just our auntie and uncles’ kids, then there are my auntie and uncles who are really my age, and—” he lets out a stuffy snort at Harry’s wide-eyed look. “Welcome to a Pakistani family, Styles.”

“And what, you have to look after all of them? Even—one of your sisters is older, right?”

Zayn doesn’t remember mentioning that. “Yeah, Doniya, but—sure. I look out for them.” Instinctively, he runs his fingers over his knuckles, over the long-faded bruises. “It might surprise you, but it’s not always easy being us. I make sure I’m the one who gets the hard parts.” Harry’s still looking at him, that not-quite-confused but intent look, and Zayn has to look down at his hands. “What?” he asks again.

“You’re cute,” Harry replies, a laugh in his voice, and Zayn makes a face at his lap. “You pretend you’re all cynical and snarky and annoyingly pretentious, but you’re just a marshmallow, aren’t you? I bet you like animals too.”

Now Zayn’s the one who’s confused, looking at Harry with his head cocked. “Of course. I love animals, I volunteer at a shelter at home sometimes. I’m getting, like, three dogs and three cats as soon as I graduate.” He didn’t know that was ever in question. He might be a little sharp sometimes, and he won’t take bullshit, and maybe his temper’s a little fast, but he’s always considered himself a nice person. “What about you? Dogs or cats?”

“Both.” Harry makes a face, wrinkling his nose. “Or, I like both, but dogs don’t like me.” Now Zayn recognizes the look he gives Zayn, the flash of flirtation. “Good thing for me you’re just catty.”

“Make any kitty jokes, and I’ll cut off your dick,” Zayn retorts, but he chuckles as he stretches a little.

“Whatever you say.” Harry pauses. “Are you tired? You should get more sleep, I think.”

“No, just, feeling gross still.” Now that he’s not drinking soup, he’s a little cold again, and pulls himself closer, cuddling into the sweatshirt. “If you want me to go home, really, I can—”

“Don’t be stupid.” Harry might be trying for stern, but he doesn’t really make it very well. “I’m not going to kick you out.”

“Don’t you, I don’t know. Have a party tonight or something?”

“I can stay in.” Harry grins at Zayn. “Or I’ll leave you here. Don’t worry. I’m not sacrificing anything.”

“And the world makes sense again,” Zayn nods. Except—he doesn’t believe Harry, he finds. He doesn’t believe that he’d leave Zayn here. It’s a weird sensation, because Harry’s not supposed to take care of him, or really care about him, or any of that shit. They’re using each other for their bodies, because they’re attractive, and that’s all. Zayn doesn’t like frat bros.

But then again, frat bros aren’t supposed to feed him soup.

There’s a knock on the door. “You better all be decent in there!” Louis yells through the door. “No fucking while Zayn’s sick, Styles. That’s just unhygienic.”

Harry winces away, and Zayn hadn’t noticed he’d gotten close as they talked, leaning together like they were sharing secrets. “That’s gross, Tommo!” He yells back, “What do you want?”

“Bringing tea to the invalid.” Louis pushes the door open. Sure enough, he has a mug of tea in his hand. “I even managed to convince Niall not to spike it with anything, you should be thanking me for that.”

He bustles in, setting the mug of tea by the bedside and pressing the back of his hand to Zayn’s forehead like Harry had earlier. “Feels better, I think. The tea’ll help too.” He flicks at Zayn’s forehead, then he’s a step away before Zayn can extricate himself enough from the blankets to get a shot back. “And here’s some more Advil, you can take some in an hour or so, and I’ll get you some more blankets. No strenuous activity, Haz. I mean it. I don’t care if you get off on him in your clothes.”

With that, he’s out of the room, and Zayn’s left blinking after him. He—wasn’t Louis annoyed at him last night? Because he’d called him on being a dick?

“He’s got five younger sisters,” Harry explains, as the door shuts behind Louis again. “He’s another one of you worriers.”

“But—”

“Here. These are from Liam’s bed, he won’t need them and he’s pretty clean.” Louis comes back in, dropping a mess of blankets on the bed. “Haz, move.”

“I can help,” Harry protests, but Louis ignores him, shaking out a blanket and spreading it over Zayn.

“You don’t—” Zayn starts to protest, but Louis shakes his head.

“Sorry, bro. Once Harry brought my mom into it, you’re my responsibility. She’ll be checking in now. And I can’t trust Styles here not to be overwhelmed by your ass.”

“Somehow, he’s managed to hold in his urges for the past few hours,” Zayn replies, sharper than maybe he meant.

“Oh good, you’re yelling at me for political correctness, you must be feeling better.” Louis spreads another blanket over him, then leaves the rest at the foot of the bed. “Keep drinking fluids—does Liam have Gatorade, maybe? And Advil soon. Call my mom if you need to, Haz, I’ve got to get to practice but she knows you might. Feel better, Zee.”

He disappears out of the room as abruptly and loudly as he had come in, leaving Zayn a little confused and much warmer than before. And with Harry laughing at his confusion.

“He’s a mother hen, told you.” Harry laughs. “Now, what do you want to do? I can get some video games up here, or we can go downstairs, just I don’t know who’s here or what they’re doing, and you might be contagious.”

“I need to read.” Zayn holds up his Dostoyevsky.

Harry rolls his eyes. “You’re sick, take a day off.”

“I need to get this read, because I have to write a paper on it this week,” Zayn says, as evenly as he can. “And I need to do well on this paper, because I need good grades to get into a good internship, and—”

“Okay, okay.” Harry’s laughing again. “You can read.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Zayn tells him. He’s not going to die or anything, Harry doesn’t have to watch him all the time. “If you have, like, practice or something.”

“Not yet.” Harry shrugs, and looks at his computer. “I guess should probably do some work too.”

“You, work? Didn’t know that happens.”

“It does occasionally.” Harry shrugs, apparently unconcerned with Zayn’s sarcasm. “Law school, like I said. I need a good one.” He pats Zayn’s thigh through the blanket. “Drink your tea.”

\---

They don’t say anything, but Zayn knows it changes, after that. Something changes, at least, or maybe it had changed before. But it’s different, after that day. After Zayn had woken up from a nap with his head pillowed on Harry’s thigh, Harry’s hands petting idly over his head as he read. After Harry had stayed in that night, the two of them watching a movie on Zayn’s computer—Return of the King, because Harry refused any superhero movies (with a laugh at Zayn for being a nerd) and Zayn refused Harry’s stoner comedies. After Harry had watched how into the movie Zayn got, because how could you not get into Theoden or Aragorn’s speeches, and hadn’t really laughed, had just smiled at him. After Zayn had fallen asleep again, and woken up cuddled close to Harry, his hand on his chest.

It’s nothing clear, what’s changed. And they don’t talk about it. But there’s been a shift, and Zayn can feel it.

“Hey, Zayn.” Zayn blinks, looking up from his computer to see Liam hovering at the seat across from him, holding a tray piled high with pasta. Zayn glances around, but there are plenty of open seats in the dining hall, plenty of places he could sit; he definitely said Zayn’s name.

“Hey.” Zayn nods, and Liam grins and sits down across from him. He’s in his usual tank top and loose jeans, but there’s a nervous, almost pinched look on his face, and it doesn’t go away as he starts to eat.

“How’s your day been?” Liam asks, swallowing a mouthful.

“Good.” Zayn pauses, but Liam’s fidgeting, and clearly not saying anything else. “What’s up?”

“Um.” Liam presses his lips together. There’s something charming, about the blush on his cheeks. “You’re an English major, right? I think Harry said that?”

“Yeah.”

“And Harry said you’re like, proper smart. Really good at it.”

Zayn can’t help his grin at his sandwich. “Um, I guess?”

“Okay.” Liam swallows, rolling his shoulders back. “I’m failing my lit class. And if I get below a C, my GPA will drop too low to be on the crew team.”

Zayn’s smile fades. Of course. Here it is. He should have known it was coming, for all Liam’s distracting body or puppy dog eyes. It’s a flashback suddenly, to high school jocks and ‘do my homework or I’ll beat you up.’ But he hadn’t given in then, and he’s not now. “I’m not writing your papers for you,” he spits, glaring.

Liam’s eyes widen, pretty convincingly. “What? No, no I didn’t mean that. I wouldn’t. And especially not you—there are people you can go to for that, I wouldn’t ask it of you. No, I was wondering—would you mind, maybe, tutoring me?”

It surprises Zayn enough that his glare fades. “What?”

“Tutor me,” Liam repeats. “Maybe, talk over the books with me, make sure I got them? And look over my papers? Please?” He really is blushing now, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m fine with numbers things, and I can make do with social sciences, but I’m just really shit at English, but I needed a writing course. Would you mind? We could do it at the house, whenever you’re around.”

Zayn lets out a breath. But honestly. He doesn’t know how anyone stands up to Liam’s puppy dog eyes, or how he’s fiddling. And it’s not a stupid request, though maybe he is stupid for believing Liam, and it will turn into Zayn writing his papers for him. “Yeah, sure,” he agrees. “No problem.”

“Awesome!” Liam’s eyes crinkle into a smile. “Thanks so much, you’re the best. I mean, I knew you had to be, for Harry to be so into you, but—thanks.”

His smile’s infectious, Zayn finds. “No problem, I said.”

“Yeah, it’s just. I mean. I don’t read much?” Liam chatters on. “Comics, but that’s about it.”

That gets Zayn’s attention. “What comics?”

“Oh, well.” Liam grins sheepishly. “I’m a massive superheroes fan. I know they aren’t, like, literature or whatever, and it’s a bit nerdy, but I love ‘em, you know?”

“No shit.” Zayn sets his book aside. “I’m the biggest superhero nerd ever. Marvel or DC?”

Liam’s eyes light up. “DC, all the way. You can’t beat Batman.”

They argue about it for all of lunch, until Zayn needs to leave to get to class. Zayn’s grinning when he leaves. He hasn’t had a good discussion about that since he left high school, his friends all a little too cool for comics, and he didn’t want to go out and find the comics readers. Liam’s not stupid about them, either, for all he’s wrong about who the best Spiderman was, because Andrew Garfield was clearly superior.

There’s a group if Pi Sigs hanging out outside the dining hall, shoving at each other and whistling at girls who walk by. Zayn rolls his eyes, and walks faster. Good to know some things about life are constant.

\---

“Hey, Zayn!” Zayn pauses to wait as Claire jogs to catch up with him, even if really, she could probably catch up with him without him waiting. She links their arms together as they start walking again. “I just wanted to tell you that the circulation on the magazine is way up, this edition. I don’t know why, but somehow it’s been going much faster.”

“Clearly my design’s just irresistible,” Zayn drawls, but when Claire cuffs him on the back of the head, he laughs. “Nah, that’s great, though.”

“Right? And just in time. I can throw this on my resume.” She grins, bright as the fall sun, the sort of smile that takes up her whole face and makes her beautiful. “You could too, you know. You’re basically co-editor.”

“That’s your job. I just do what has to be done.”

“Because you refuse to let me title you,” Claire retorts. “It’s some deep-seated self-esteem thing, isn’t it? I’m a psych minor, I am totally qualified to therapize you.”

“At least two of those words aren’t words,” Zayn shoots back, but he’s laughing too. It’s not, he knows. Or he doesn’t think. He just doesn’t really want the commitment inherent in having his name on something like that. He’s happy doing what he’s doing, and it can go on his resume in some way. He doesn’t want to be in charge, never has been. But he saw a place to help and he did, that’s all.

“Shut up, English major. Maybe I’m Shakespeare.”

“I’ve seen your poetry, you aren’t.”

“Mean.” Claire snorts.

“Who’s being mean?” Zayn doesn’t know how they do it, always drawn together, but somehow Marta appears on his other side. Like her girlfriend, she links their arms together, like some weird gay rendition of the Wizard of Oz. So maybe not that weird.

“Zayn.”

“You going to defend her honor?” Zayn grins down at Marta.

“I totally could. I could take you.” She puffs out her chest. “Though I be but little…”

“Uh-huh.” Zayn would ruffle her hair, but both his arms are occupied. So instead he just sticks his tongue out.

They turn a corner. He doesn’t know where the girls are going, but he’s on his way home, he thinks. He’ll probably end up at the house later, but he needs to write at least five pages of his thesis, and he wants to hear how Jawaad’s ‘no I’m almost certain this one’s a date’ study session went.

Their route home takes them past the gym, and Zayn just happens to look over as a Harry comes out, Niall and Liam at his heels. They’re all talking amidst themselves, and Zayn might take a second to ogle, because it’s worth ogling—Harry’s in his gym shorts and nearly translucent white tank top again, and it’s sticking to his tanned skin and the sun’s hitting his arms as he waves them as he talks and it’s in his hair and his smile—before he goes on past, but then Harry looks up, catches his gaze.

He grins, and Zayn nods back. There, acknowledgment. He didn’t really expect more than that, when they were both with their friends. Marta’s in her combat boots and her hair’s got pink tips today; Claire’s got her biggest wide-rimmed glasses on. They aren’t the sort of people Harry’d want to talk to, he knows.

Which is why he’s not expecting it when, “Hey, Zayn!” Harry says loudly, not quite a yell, but clearly loud enough that Zayn can’t ignore it.

Claire’s eyebrows go up. “Someone you know?”

“Um, yeah.” Zayn twitches, but the girls have fast hold on his arms, so he can’t do anything but turn them around. “He’s—well—”

He hasn’t quite figured out how to phrase it by the time the three boys catch up with them. It is, Zayn supposes, also on the way to Greek Row, but they didn’t have to walk with him. “Hey, Zayn,” Harry says again, dimpling. “I didn’t know you knew where the gym was.”

“Oh, is that the gym? I thought it was just your super secret hideaway,” Zayn retorts.

“It’s that too,” Niall agrees easily. He’s eying Marta in a way that’s not even subtle. “Aren’t you going to introduce as, Zayn?”

Both girls are giving him skeptical looks, but what is he supposed to do? “Oh, yeah. Marta, Claire, this is Harry, Niall, and Liam. Guys, this is Marta and Claire.”

“And how do you know Zayn?” Harry asks, sounding polite. He’s also eying both girls, but Zayn knows what Harry looks like when he’s attracted to someone, and it isn’t that look.

“He is our tragically sexually incompatible life partner,” Marta answers, patting Zayn’s bicep.

Niall’s gaze is still fixed on her, and Zayn knows what’s coming and doesn’t know how to stop it. “If you need a sexually compatible—”

“The incompatible’s not just on his end,” Claire says, hard and harsh, and Marta giggles as Niall’s eyes narrow for a second, then widen.

It’s Liam, though, who voices the, “Oh, you’re—”

“Yeah.” Claire lets go of Zayn to cross her arms over her chest. Zayn knows a little bit about her history, about high school and religious parents and all the shit she’s dealt with, so he shifts so he can clearly be behind her, backing her up. They might be cool enough with the gay thing, but lesbians are often a different story, and he’s not going to deal with that. Not even if he does, in general, like Niall. “And no, it’s not because we haven’t met the right guy.”

Her tone’s combative, but Niall just laughs, holds up his hands. “Fair play!” he chuckles. “Not going to deny the lure of pussy.”  

Zayn snorts, he can’t help it. Harry laughs too, but Liam shakes his head. “Thanks, Niall. Real classy.”

“I’m always classy,” Niall retorts. He gives both girls a leer that somehow manages to be friendly. “If you ever want to experiment, look me up.”

“Thanks.” Marta’s voice is unusually cool. “Now that that’s sorted,” she goes on, sharpening. “How do you know Zayn?”

“We—” Harry pauses, looking at Zayn. He had relaxed, but now he’s tense again, “Zayn and I…” he trails off, shrugging.

“We hook up sometimes,” Zayn fills in. It’s not like he’s ashamed of it, and the girls already know, even if they don’t know who. And he can see them make the connection, as their eyes dart to Harry and back.

“Sometimes,” Liam mutters under his breath. “All the time.”

“Liam’s room is next to Harry’s,” Niall explains to the girls. Marta looks on the brink of bursting into laughter, Claire like she’s gearing up for a lecture. “I’m down the hall, so I only hear the highlights.”

“Like I haven’t heard both of you,” Harry shoots back. His cheeks are a little flushed, but he smiles, unconcerned. “What exactly were Sophia and you doing two nights ago, Liam?”

Liam goes bright red. “I—”

“I mean, I didn’t know her dad was in the room,” Zayn adds. They’d just been about to go to sleep when they’d heard that, and then they’d been giggling too hard to sleep. “Maybe we’d have been quieter if we knew.”

“Shut up,” Liam retorts. Zayn exchanges a satisfied smirk with Harry.

“So,” Claire says drily. No one does judgment quite like Claire. “This was…elucidating. But Zayn, we were going to catch that film festival thing…”

Zayn glances at his watch. “Oh, shit, was that today?”

“Yes,” she replies shortly. “It was. Where did you think we were going?”

“Home?” Zayn tries, rubbing his neck sheepishly.

Claire rolls her eyes, and Marta laughs. “You were the one who wanted this!”

“Yeah, well. I forgot.” He knows he’d written it down somewhere. “I’ll run home and drop my shit off, I can meet you there.”

“Or we’ll go with you and make sure you don’t take an hour getting ready,” Marta tells him instead. “Come on. We only built in so long for you to be late.”

“Yeah, okay.” Zayn gives them his most charming smile, then turns to the boys. “We’ve got to run, sorry.”

“We need to go pick up beer anyway,” Niall agrees. He nods at the girls. “Remember. I’m happy to be experimented on, if you ever want it.”

“Doubt it,” Claire mutters, as Marta laughs and thanks him.

“Zayn.” Zayn’s distracted from watching Claire decide if Niall’s being tolerant or sexually harassing them by a finger in his belt loops, pulling him towards Harry. Then it’s hard to look anywhere else, with Harry right there. Zayn just wants to knock his stupid hat off and get his fingers in his hair. “Come by later?”

“Yeah.” For lack of anywhere else to put his hands, they end up on Harry’s hips, where he can feel the skin above his shorts. “Marathon might go late, though.”

“What sort of marathon?” Harry asks. He looks really interested, too, even if he hasn’t let go of Zayn yet either.

“It’s—the director’s Lubitsch, he was a director in the 20s, he did—” Zayn tries to think of any way Harry might understand.  “He did the thing that You’ve Got Mail is a remake of. And a bunch of silent movies too.”

“Cool!” Harry grins, and try as Zayn might, he can’t see mockery in it. “I love old movies. I’ve never seen silent films, but, old black and white shit? That’s the best.”

“Really? You like that sort of stuff?” Zayn’s seen Harry’s taste in movies, the sort of shit he makes Zayn watch. Harry shrugs.

“Yeah, sure. I was almost a film studies major, but, well. Law school.”  It doesn’t compute—or it sort of does, really, for Harry, which computes even less. “I’ll be up, though. Maybe I’ll look up a movie or two.”

Zayn glances over his shoulders. The girls are making what looks like the world’s most awkward small talk with Liam and Niall, Marta’s hand steadying in Claire’s.

“You could… I mean, you could come,” Zayn suggests. It’s weird, but he can’t think of a reason not to. “There aren’t reservations or anything. You wouldn’t have to stay, if you get bored. I know it’s boring, if you aren’t into that.”

“Oh.” Harry’s eyes widen for a second, but then he grins. “Yeah, sure! I can run home and get changed, meet you there.”

“Awesome.” Zayn looks at Claire again. She might kill him. “I mean, you don’t have to. It was just—if you’re interested.”

Harry leans down, so his lips brush over Zayn’s ear. “Dark room, you…I’m not saying no to that.”

“We’re watching the movie,” Zayn retorts, but he’s laughing, as he shoves Harry away. “Hurry up and shower, you smell gross.”

“You love it when I smell sweaty,” Harry corrects, but he grins back. “Come on, guys, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you there!” he tells the girls, with a grin Zayn recognizes as the one he gives the TA when he’s clearly not done the reading, and leads them off.

Claire turns her glare to him. Zayn shrugs. “He wanted to come.”

“So you invite your hook up?” she demands. “Your fraternity douche hook up? You can’t just hook up during it.”

“He’s not that bad,” Zayn retorts. It’s nothing he didn’t think, but she doesn’t even know him. “They aren’t that bad. They were chill with you guys, weren’t they?”

“For a given definition.” But Claire lets out her breath. “He just better have a fucking magic dick.”

“It’s a delight,” Zayn snaps. “Now are we going to get going, or do you want to be late?”

\---

Harry’s waiting for them when they get to the film studies center, lounging outside with his head tilted to look at his phone. He looks good—he always looks good, but the only times Zayn’s really seen him in clothes that aren’t the sweats or shorts he wears to class Zayn’s either been drunk or trying to rip them off of him. So it’s a little bit of a new experience, to see Harry in tight jeans that accentuate his narrow hips, his long legs, and a blue button down shirt with the top few buttons open so his chest’s on display, a necklace with an airplane on it bouncing against the muscles there. Zayn swallows. He looks really fucking good—and more than that, he looks like he made an effort. Zayn’s suddenly thankful instead of embarrassed that he spent the time to take his hair down and to throw on a sweater, rather than just dropping his stuff off, no matter how the girls teased.

“Okay, fine,” Claire mutters, as they get closer. “He’s hot. I’ll give you that.”

Zayn doesn’t have time to reply before Harry sees them, and smiles, big and bright. “Hey!” he says, loudly. “Ready to go in? I wasn’t sure if you’d have opinions on seats or not, so I thought I’d wait.”

“We would have been here sooner, if someone hadn’t spent so much time on his hair,” Marta informs him, throwing a teasing glance at Zayn. Zayn sticks his tongue out at her, then follows her through the door that Harry holds open for them.

Harry catches his hips as he closes the doors, curving around him so he can whisper in his ear. “I at least appreciate the effort.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and steps away, but he doesn’t go far.

They settle onto the floor of the big, open space somewhere in the middle of the group. Marta and Harry disappear for a few minutes, then come back with pillows for all of them, and Zayn doesn’t really want to know how they were acquired, if he goes by Harry’s smirk. But by the time they movie’s started, Marta and Claire are cuddled together on one pillow, and Harry’s thigh is pressed against his, a constant pressure that makes Zayn intimately aware that Harry’s next to him.

He expects Harry to get bored, really. It’s sweet, Harry wanting to do this with him, maybe for him, but silent films are hard if you’re not into that stuff, and he’s seen Harry get fidgety in the few lectures he’s been to, how he’s pretty quickly looking up sports scores.

But Harry stays still, watching the screen with big eyes, except for a few glances at Zayn when Zayn reacts, because he’s a loud movie watcher. It’s Zayn who gets fidgety, waiting for Harry. They’re in a dark room. Usually when he and Harry are in a dark room, they end up fooling around. And Zayn knows Claire and Marta are next to them, and there are students all around them, but Harry looks really good.

He edges closer, his hand sliding over Harry’s belt, and turns his head to press his lips against Harry’s neck. He smells like some sort of aftershave, musky but sweet.

He can feel the vibration of Harry’s chuckle against his skin. “Zayn.”

“What?” Zayn whispers, smirking as he lifts his head so Harry’s jaw is right there. Harry’s not going to get the drop on him. He knows it’s coming, he might as well take the initiative.

But Harry turns his head, and his hand wraps around Zayn’s waist instead of going for anything less chaste. “Later, baby. I want to watch the movie.”

“I’m not your baby,” Zayn mutters, but, okay. He can do that too. He can sit there with Harry in the dark with Harry’s head on his shoulder and his hair getting into Zayn’s mouth, can watch an old movie about love with him, and have them both be interested. It’s—okay. Apparently it’s something they can do.

Then after, he can wave goodbye to Claire and Marta and ignore their disapproving and knowing looks, respectively, and end up back in Harry’s bed, in the dark but much, much less chaste, and he falls asleep with Harry’s head on his chest and his hands in Harry’s hair, playing idly with the curls until he drops off.

\---

“Liam.” Reluctantly, Liam drags his eyes away from the football game playing on the big screen of the house living room, and focuses back on Zayn, and the computer screen they’re sharing.

“Sorry,” he mutters, sheepish. “Right. So, the quotes?”

“Basically, you need more.” Zayn scrolls through the paper open on the screen. “They’re where your facts are, they should be the backbone of your paper. I think that’s your main problem here, really. I’ve marked the places I think you really need textual evidence. I can look it over again when you’re done with that.”

“Thanks!” Liam grins, his eyes crinkling. “Seriously, Zayn. You’re the best.”

Zayn shrugs, and hands the computer to Liam, settling back on the couch, turning so he can fit better against Harry. “It wasn’t a big thing.”

“No, but it—this is going to save my hide with coach.” Liam closes the laptop and sets it on the coffee table, then his focus clearly turns completely onto the game. “And my mom. You’re—fuck yeah!” he yells, at what Zayn presumes is a touchdown on screen.

Zayn rolls his eyes, and picks up his own computer. He could go to the library—honestly, he should probably have gone to the library to work with Liam, but they’d both already been here and it had seemed silly to walk to the library, and Liam had insisted he could concentrate. And now it seems just as silly to walk to the library when Zayn’s comfortable here, with the boys’ yelling in the background and Harry as a nice warm backrest.

“You’re good at that,” Harry observes. Zayn hadn’t even thought he was watching, had thought he was just paying attention to the game.

Zayn shrugs. “Yeah, well. ‘s what I want to do, I think.”

“Teach?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll be good at it,” Harry tells him, firmly. “It sounds right for you.”

Zayn snorts. “Tell that to my parents.” As soon as he says it, he knows it’s unfair. And it’s not something Harry needs to hear, and it’s certainly not something all the other guys need to hear, lazily drunk on a Saturday afternoon.

Thankfully, something else happens on screen, to distract everyone. Or so he hopes, but

“Do your parents not want you to be a teacher?” Harry presses. “Isn’t that what everyone wants?”

“They’re…” Zayn twists his lips, trying to figure out how to explain it to Harry. To someone like Harry. “I’m the first one in my family to go to college, yeah? And they—like, I know my dad loves me, and he’ll support whatever I do, but I feel like he’d have preferred I, dunno. He thinks I could be a doctor.”

“You’re smart enough to be a doctor,” Harry agrees. His voice is warm, and not judgmental, and it’s stupid but it feels nice to hear.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to be one. I don’t like blood and shit, and that’s—I think I’d burn out. And I like English and teaching and shit.” He shrugs again. “they just, like, they don’t say it, but they think I’m wasting the opportunity, or something.”

“That’s bullshit.” It doesn’t come from Harry, and Zayn nearly jumps. But Louis’s voice is sharp and sure, over the commercial for Bud Light. “Being a teacher’s the most you could be using this opportunity. Educating our youth and all that shit.”

“Not much money in it.” Zayn gets it, is the thing. Gets why his dad had nodded but hadn’t looked entirely pleased when he’d said he was majoring in English, why his mother’s lips pinch when he mentions the fellowships he’s looking for. “And it’s not a thing, yeah? They’re cool with it.”

“And your parents are cool with—” Niall cuts himself off, but he gestures, and it somehow takes in how Zayn and Harry are sitting, tangled together with Harry’s head resting on Zayn’s so he can watch the TV.

“Yeah.” Zayn pokes at Harry’s leg. “My dad always says there’s too many girls about, I think he was happy knowing eventually the men would outnumber them. Probably, I mean.”

“But…aren’t you Muslim?” Liam asks, and Zayn’s eyes narrow. “That’s not okay with them, right?”

“Yes, amazingly there are Muslims who are progressive and are okay with their son being gay,” Zayn snaps. Harry’s hand runs down his arm, like he’s calming him down, but he didn’t—it’s just bullshit, the number of times people ask him that. “It’s astonishing, yeah? They aren’t ready to declare jihad.”

“I don’t think my parents would be,” Niall interrupts, before Zayn can keep going. He leans back into Harry. He knows Liam didn’t mean anything by it, but fuck that. “I think there’d be a lot of rosaries, or something.”

“Says the altar boy,” Louis retorts, shoving at him. “We know what altar boys get up—”

“Game’s on!” Liam cuts him off, and all their focus shifts. Zayn turns back to his paper, but after writing another few pages, he finds his attention drifting. He did plenty today, and he can do more tomorrow, and he just really doesn’t want to think about symbols or Pynchon any more today.

He bends over Harry to dig out the comic Liam had lent him, but something else on the bottom shelf of the coffee table catches his eye. It takes a little bit of maneuvering, and Harry laughing at him—he’s only a few inches shorter than Harry, he doesn’t know where he gets off on all this taunting—but he eventually grabs a very familiar magazine.

“Why’s this here?”

Harry draws his attention away from the game, and Zayn thinks he blushes, but he’s not sure. “I’ve been—I put some around, you know? You only had them in a few places, so thought I’d spread them around a bit.”

Zayn blinks. It’s not what he expected, not even a little, except it’s so in character. “You’re sweet,” he tells Harry, and Harry smirks at him.

“Not what you said last night.”

“You are, though,” Zayn insists, and squeezes Harry’s arm, in a thanks he’s not sure he can say. “This was—like, it’s sweet.”

“It’s important to you, right? I saw how much work you put into it.” Harry shrugs, waving it away. “It wasn’t hard or anything. Just helping out.”

“If I’m cute, you’re sweet,” Zayn retorts, and this time punctuates it with a light cuff to Harry’s head. Harry’s dimples deepen as he laughs.

“Well you are cute,” Harry admits, and leans in for a quick kiss.

“I’m going to dump water on you soon,” Louis warns, and they break apart laughing. “You’re worse than Liam and Sophia.”

“We’re not—” Zayn starts to protest, because they’re not like Liam and Sophia, but,

“Fuck they’re running!” Harry yells, surging to his feet, and Zayn falls back into the couch with a roll of his eyes, opening his comic as the boys all start screaming about the game.

\---

“Zaaaayn.” Zayn rolls his eyes as he ducks upstairs. The basement’s hot and crowded, and more than that, it’s loud, in the way underground shows should be. Loud and close and intimate. Which isn’t conducive to a phone call.

“What, Harry?”

“Where are you? Are you at a party without me?” Zayn finally emerges up onto the street. It’s blessedly cool out here, and he digs in his pocket for a cigarette as he answers. He could stay out here a while.

“I’m at a show, Harry.” He lights the cigarette, leans back against the brick wall of the bar. “What’s up?”

“What’s up is I’m drunk and you’re not here,” Harry whines, like Zayn needed to be told that. It’s a Friday night, after all.

“So this is a booty call?”

“You haven’t got much of a booty to call, but yeah.”

“You like what booty I have,” Zayn retorts, and Harry chuckles, low and deep.

“I do,” he agrees, and he’s slurring, more than usual. Harry’s got decent tolerance, Zayn’s figured out from stories, even if he’s no Niall, but this sounds…loopy. “You should come over, baby. Make it worth your while.”

“Are you at the house?”

“At. On. Around.” There’s laughter, not just his.

“On?” Zayn repeats, and he remembers Liam that night, leaning out on the roof, egged on because they’re so stupid that way. And Liam’s an athlete, he’s got balance, Harry’s a klutz on his best days. “Are you on the roof, Harry?”

“We all are! I’m the drunkest, though, ‘cause I won.”

“What did you win?”

“The drinking game! We wanted to see who could do the most shots in a minute. I won.”

“Of course you did.” Zayn glances back downstairs, but the show’s almost over, and it wasn’t that great anyway. “If you get off the roof, I’ll come over.”

“You’re such a spoilsport,” Harry sighs, then there’s a crash, and a bang, and Harry swearing, and the call cuts off.

Fuck. Zayn’s moving before he thinks about it, towards Greek Row. Those roofs are steep and Harry was clearly trashed, and a fall from that height could do serious damage, especially when not sober enough to know how to fall, and all the other guys were probably too trashed to do anything. And Harry doesn’t answer when he calls back. Either time.

He doesn’t quite run to the house, but it still takes him far less time than he should to get there, and he’s more winded than he should be when he lets out a breath at there being no ambulance. Someone would at least know to do that if Harry’d fallen off the roof.

Instead, he only makes it to the porch before he’s hit in the side by a body wrapping itself around him.

“Zayn!” Harry reeks of alcohol, and his grin is bright and sloppy, though his eyes are bleary. “You’re here?”

“What the fuck happened?” Zayn demands, grabbing Harry’s shoulders. But he looks fine, just drunk off his ass.

“Happened?” Harry repeats.

“You cut off, and then you didn’t pick up your phone. What happened?”

“Oh. I…don’t know? I called you?”

And that’s all Zayn’s getting out of him tonight, clearly. “Okay, Harry. Time for bed.”

“Yeah it is,” Harry agrees, waggling his eyebrows. He tries to grope Zayn’s ass, but misses and his hand hits air instead. “Oops.”

“Yeah, oops. Come on.” Zayn throws Harry’s arm over his shoulder, and pulls him towards the door. It’s already opening when Zayn levers Harry up the stairs, which would be a lot easier if Harry wasn’t doing something that he thinks is trying to be sexy against his neck.

“Oh, good, he didn’t get far,” Louis says, as he holds open the door.

“Didn’t get far?”

“Yeah, he wanders when he’s drunk. I was about to head to yours, honestly, see if he went that way.”

“Louis, Zayn’s here!” Harry says, grinning proudly. “He’s taking me to bed.”

“Yeah he is,” Louis agrees, laughing. “Need help, Zayn?”

“He doesn’t,” Harry assures Louis, and Louis snorts as Zayn wills himself not to react.

“Definitely time for bed,” he tells Harry, then to Louis. “What happened to him?”

“He’s just drunk. He beat Niall, for once,” Louis gets quickly out of the way as Harry stumbles forward. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Harry insists, and then trips so Louis and Zayn both grab his shoulders, lever him upright, when he drapes himself over Zayn again. “We’re gonna fuck, come on, Zayn.”

“Yeah, because you’re definitely getting it up right now,” Zayn mutters, but he waves Louis away, and starts them up the stairs. He definitely did not sign up for this, for Harry basically a dead weight except for all the nonsense he’s muttering into Zayn’s ear. But he gets them upstairs, and then to Harry’s bed, before he dumps Harry down there.

“C’mere,” Harry slurs, holding out his arms. “Gonna fuck you so good.”

“Uh-huh.” Zayn nods. He’s never been so thankful for Harry’s sneakers before, because they come off easily, and he can sleep in the rest of what he has on. He’d really hoped he was done with this after Freshman year. And you didn’t get like this with weed. “Bedtime, sleep it off.”

“Sleep you off,” Harry makes that same grabby motion, tries for a smirk. This drunk, it’s lost all its arrogance, and makes him look more like a sleepy child that Zayn can’t help but smile at. “Wanna…fuck,” he swears, and suddenly he’s green, his hand on his mouth.

Zayn jumps out of the way before Harry stumbles to the door and down the hall, hitting the wall hard as he turns. It’s close, but he makes it to the bathroom, and the sound of puking is clear.

Of course. Zayn trails after him, runs his hand down Harry’s back as he retches into the toilet, gathers up the loose strands of Harry’s hair like he’d used to do with his sisters when they were sick. He’s not puking long, but when he’s done he just sags there for long enough that Zayn shakes his shoulder gently.

“Harry.”

“Huh?” Harry lifts his head. His eyes are bleary, and the flush has gone to just a dull pallor. “Zayn! Why are you here?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Zayn tells him. “Brush your teeth, then bed.”

“Yeah.” Harry agrees vaguely, but it’s enough that Zayn gets him upright and to the sink so he can brush his teeth, then back to his room, where Zayn dumps him into bed again. This was not what he’d come over here for.

“Here,” Harry mutters, and reaches out his hands again, from under the blankets where Zayn had tucked him in.

“Yeah I know what’s been in your mouth, that’s not happening.” Zayn leans down though, presses his lips to Harry’s forehead. “I’ll be back in a second.”

“Better be,” Harry mutters, but he relaxes back down, curls up so the blankets wrap tight around him. He looks about five right now, innocent despite how Zayn knows very well he’s not.

Zayn shuts the door gently behind him. He might not like it, but he knows how to do this. He still remembers with a bit of horror the first time Claire had gotten properly drunk Freshman year. The boys are still in the living room mostly, although some might have gone to bed or out, but the TV’s definitely on, and Zayn can hear cheering. He ignores that though, goes to the kitchen to pour a glass of water, then back upstairs. There’s Advil in the medicine cabinet, so Zayn gets that, then sets a few pills and the glass of water on the bedside table, for when Harry wakes up.

There’s a snort from the bed, and Zayn looks over. Harry’s still out cold, sprawled on his stomach now. There’s a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. It should be far more revolting than it is.  

Well then. He should probably stay, make sure Harry doesn’t choke on his own vomit, but he wasn’t prepared for this when he went out tonight. Zayn heads back out to the hall. There are a bunch of brothers in the living room still, doing something with alcohol Zayn’s really trying not to think about.

“You can’t chicken out now!” Liam laughs, nudging at someone. “We’ve only got another bottle, we can do it!”

“I’m done,” Jared announces. From what Zayn can see, he’s wobbling, but he looks steadier than Harry had, at least. “You can finish without me.”

“That’s so—” Liam cuts himself off. “That’s lame.  To life!” He hands Jared another bottle, and Jared laughs and toasts with it, before they both chug. There are bottles littering the floor, around the boys’ feet, and Zayn needs to jump in before they’re all incoherent.

“Hey.”

“Zayn! Zayner my Zayner.” Louis toasts him with his video game controller from the couch. “Zaynaroni. Come play with me.”

“Yeah, stop.” Zayn rolls his eyes at him, and Louis snorts before focusing back on his game. “Do you guys have any saline solution?” He’s not going to bed with contacts in, but he hadn’t thought of this when he’d decided to combat the growing headache with wearing his contacts today.

“None in the bathroom?” Niall asks. He seems a bit more sober than the rest of them, but his tolerance is way out of proportion to his body mass, from what Zayn’s seen, and there are just as many bottles near his seat on the armchair.

“Nope. ‘s fine, I’ll run out—”

“Michael.” Louis waves a hand, and Michael bounces up from his seat. Maybe they’ve been watching his intake, or maybe he’s just got a Freshman’s energy, but he doesn’t seem as drunk.

“Yep! Do you need anything else? Is—” he makes a face. “There’s not, like, puke or anything to clean up, is there?”

“No, Harry got to the bathroom. But you don’t have to go,” Zayn says, but Michael’s already out of earshot. The kid moves fast.

“He didn’t have to go,” Zayn repeats, perching on the arm of the couch near Louis. “I could have gone.”

“He does, actually.” Louis doesn’t look away from his game this time. Liam’s trying to convince Jared to take another shot, it looks like, and succeeding. “Girlfriend privileges.”

“Girlfriend privileges?” Zayn echoes. “I’m no one’s girlfriend.”

“Sure.” Niall finishes his beer, sets it delicately down on the table. “Means he has to do what you say, too. And like, you can invite people to parties and shit, but you don’t care about that.”

“I’m not Harry’s girlfriend,” Zayn repeats. He doesn’t think they’re getting that. “I’m not a girl. And I’m not even his boyfriend.”

Niall shrugs. “Whatever. If he keeps you happy, he keeps Harry laid, so he keeps Harry happy. So, girlfriend privileges.”

Zayn blinks at him, but it’s too late for this argument. He doesn’t even know which part he’s most offended by.

“Whatever. I’m going upstairs. Tell Michael to just knock on the door when he gets back, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Niall nods, and Zayn goes back upstairs. Harry’s still out cold, so Zayn has no compunctions tugging the blankets away from him after he’s stripped to his boxers, so he can slide into bed too.

\---

For once in his life, Zayn wakes up before Harry. It’s a novel feeling, being awake when Harry’s still sprawled over him and the bed, one arm and a leg over Zayn and his mouth in Zayn’s shoulder. He’s snoring like a freight train, and Zayn does not envy him the hangover that’s coming.

But for right now, Zayn just grabs the copy of Murakami he knew he’d left somewhere that was apparently Harry’s bedside table, and cracks it open. There’s enough light in the room that he doesn’t need to turn anything on, and it’s oddly nice for a morning, having Harry’s snores in the background as he reads, petting Harry’s hair idly because it’s right there.

He gets about a chapter farther before Harry groans and shifts on the bed. Zayn lets his hand fall from his head.

“Zayn?” Harry rolls over, moaning as the light hits his eyes. “When’d you get here?”

“Last night. You called me. And apparently don’t remember it.” Zayn puts down his book to grab the water and Advil, closing Harry’s hands around both. “Take these.”

Harry swallows without objection, then chugs the whole glass of water before he opens his eyes again, squinting at Zayn. “I called you?”

“From the roof.”

Harry nods, like that makes sense, then drops his head back down into the pillow. “I feel like shit.”

“I’m not surprised.” Zayn can’t help his laugh as Harry shoves at his shoulder. “Apparently you beat Niall in a shots taking contest.”

“I did? Sick.”

“Yeah, you were.”

Harry groans again. “Too hungover for you being snarky and judgy. Go back to reading.”

Zayn snorts and does, and doesn’t say anything when Harry drops his head onto Zayn’s chest again. Harry, in return, doesn’t say anything about the fact that Zayn’s apparently petting him again. They lie like that for another few pages, then Harry lifts his head up. “I need a shower,” he announces, and sits up to strip off his shirt.

Zayn watches the show, then goes back to his book as Harry disappears towards the shower. But now he’s awake, properly, and things are nagging at him again.

Harry comes back in twenty minutes later, and Zayn’s fairly distracted by his flushed skin and the way his towel hangs low over his hips, but not enough that he doesn’t ask, when Harry closes the door again, “So I hear I have girlfriend privileges.”

Harry nods, looking at the mirror. “Yeah, figured it was time.”

“I’m not a girl.”

“I noticed, thanks.” Harry tries for a leer, which would work better if his hair wasn’t an utter mess and his gaze wasn’t still sleepy. “’s just a phrase, it’s whatever.” He shrugs. “Mainly just means everyone expects you to be around all the time, it doesn’t mean anything.”

And I’m not your boyfriend, Zayn doesn’t say. He’s not. He sees Harry’s point with the privileges or whatever, but—he likes fucking Harry, and he likes hanging out with Harry when he’s not being an asshole, but they aren’t more than that. They aren’t even friends.

But Harry’s not making a deal out of it, clearly doesn’t care, so Zayn takes a breath. It’s fine. He’s fine.

Harry looks back at the mirror, then his head tilts to the side. “Was I on the roof?”

 “Yes. And drunk enough to be browning out, apparently.”

Harry turns around. His towel’s still tucked temptingly low around his hips, probably forgotten.  “At least I didn’t fall off this time.” He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. “Did I puke?”

“This time?” That gets Zayn to sit up straight. “Have you fallen off before?”

“Only once, and I didn’t break anything, it was fine. There was definitely puking, I remember that.”

“You fell off the roof,” Zayn repeats. “And yet you still go up there?”

“Sure.” Harry runs a hand back through his hair. Wet, it’s almost long enough to reach his shoulders, framing his jaw. “Did I puke on you?”

“Around me,” Zayn corrects. He doesn’t know why he even tried with the roof thing. Clearly there are some things frat bro brains are not made to compute. Such as personal safety. “If you threw up on me, I wouldn’t be anywhere near here.” It’s only sort of a lie. He’s looked after too many sisters and cousins while their parents worked to be squeamish. But there are limits, he guesses. Being puked on would probably be them.

“And you put me to bed afterwards,” Harry goes on. There’s something about him that recalls last night, curled up in bed; the openness of it. Even naked, Zayn doesn’t think he’s quite looked like this before, his smirks gone and something soft in his gaze. “Even with the puking.”

“Yeah, well.” Zayn looks down at his book. “You looked after me when I was sick, I was just paying you back.”

That look holds for a second, then, “You didn’t puke on me, though,” Harry points out, and saunters towards the bed. He’s still not quite at full leer, but it’s close. “Think I still need to make it up to you.” The towel falls from his hips as he crawls up Zayn’s thighs, and he’s all flushed skin that Zayn can’t look away from.

“I think you’re still hungover and I’m not caffeinated,” Zayn retorts. It’s not that he objects, but, “And I know what’s been in your mouth recently.”

“I’m clean!” Harry protests. “Showered and everything, see?” he shakes his head like a dog, and the water flies from it onto Zayn.

“Harry!” Zayn snaps, but he’s laughing. It’s hard not to be. “Don’t you want caffeine?”

“Yeah.” Harry sits back on his heels, and sighs. It’s hard not to notice his cock like this, but Zayn really could use coffee, too. “Fine, let me make it up to you tonight. There’s a Pi Sig party, you should come.”

“Even though you’re hungover?”

“Hair of the dog.” Harry grins. “Please? It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t think anything could make me go to a Pi Sig party,” Zayn tells Harry, shoving at him. He doesn’t move. It’s not hot or anything.

“We’ll see about that,” Harry smirks, and leans forward—then stops, winces. “Fuck, after coffee. I’m going to start convincing you after coffee.”

“Bring me some too, please,” Zayn tells him and then is definitely swearing more than giggling when Harry gives his hair another shake before he gets off of Zayn to go get them caffeine.

\---

“You’re alive?”

Zayn closes the door behind him before he heads into the kitchen, where Jawaad’s eating a bowl of cereal, leaning against the counter. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, I just thought you disappeared.” Jawaad shrugs. “I wasn’t looking forward to telling Aunt Trisha about it, honestly.”

“Disappeared?” Zayn repeats. The cereal looks good, but Jawaad’s vicious about his food, so he edges around Jawaad to get to the cupboards. He should probably have some carbs. Getting drunk at a frat party is just so cliché. “I’ve been texting you.”

“I haven’t seen you in a week.” Jawaad stabs his spoon at him. “I thought you might have been kidnapped. Or abducted,” he adds, looking pointedly at Zayn’s shirt. “Who are you and what have you done with my cousin?”

Zayn looks down, at the tank top he’d grabbed from Harry, which does have Delta Chi emblazoned across it. “I needed a shirt, mine got…” he trails off, then smirks as dirtily as he knows how. “Unwearable.” He’d been annoyed about that, actually, that Harry had just grabbed the first thing handy to clean them off and it had ended up being his t-shirt, but now it’s more funny than anything, especially as Jawaad gags.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m well satisfied,” Zayn retorts. He pours himself a bowl of cereal, then goes to the fridge for the milk. “And it’s just a shirt.”

“I just never thought I’d see the day when you were wearing a fraternity shirt, that’s all.” Jawaad shrugs again. “Or when you’d live at a frat house.”

“I don’t live there,” Zayn protests. He glances at his phone. He has plenty of time, but he’d love a nap, or maybe to get in a page on his thesis before the party. “I’ve fallen asleep after sex.”

“You’ve slept there for the past week,” Jawaad corrects. “At a frat house. Is that even hygienic?”

“They aren’t that bad.”

“Uh-huh.” Jawaad snorts. “So what happened to the speech you gave me freshman year, about how frats are the scum of the earth?”

“I…” It’s true, he had given that speech. About how frat boys were lazy, rich kids living off their parents’ money and privilege, dumb and drunk and offensive and loud and dangerous in groups. “I might have misjudged,” he admits, brushing his hair back. “The Delta Chis aren’t that bad.”

“Aren’t that bad,” Jawaad snorts. “That what you tell Harry in bed? He isn’t that bad?”

“Shut up.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “What are you up to tonight?”

“Maria and I are hanging out.” Jawaad’s smile is small and incredulous, a little bashful. It’s adorable. “Just us.”

“Adorable.” Zayn pinches Jawaad’s cheeks, then dodges the hand Jawaad slaps at him. “It’s about time.”

“Yeah, I think—I think this seems like, the real thing?” Jawaad circles his spoon in the remnants of his cereal. “I think she does like me.”

“Of course she does, who wouldn’t?” Zayn grins at Jawaad’s eye roll. “So, I should tell the aunties to start planning the wedding?”

“Don’t you fucking dare tell them!” Jawaad snaps, his eyes widening in the very real fear of all their female relatives descending. “Or I’ll tell them you’ve shacked up with a guy. You know they’ve been wondering when you’re getting married since it was legalized.”

“He’s going to be a lawyer, they’ll be delighted,” Zayn retorts, laughing at the face Jawaad makes. “I’ve got to take a shower. Have fun on your date.”

“Where are you going?” Jawaad demands, but Zayn waves a hand as he heads to his room. He’s certainly not admitting to Jawaad just where Harry convinced him to go. It’s not his fault Harry’s got a really convincing mouth.

It’s only once he’s in his room that he realizes just how little time he has spent in it. The bed’s made from a week ago, when Harry’d been out of town; laundry’s piled up. It’s not that Zayn hasn’t been here, but usually he’s just grabbed things, books to take to the library or clothes that he brings to the house. He really hasn’t stayed here at all.

Well, there are really great perks about staying at the house. Including Harry’s hands and tongue and dick. It’s a pretty compelling argument.

\---

It was enough of an argument to get Zayn to the Pi Sig party, at least. He shows up late enough that he can feel the bass from outside, and pauses for a second outside the door. This is the fucking Pi Sig house. What is he doing here? He can smell booze and brain cells dying from here.

But he said he’d go, so he pulls open the door. Like every other frat party he’s ever ended up at, it’s loud and crowded and hot, and Zayn’s nose wrinkles instinctively as he pushes into the crowd. Step one, drink; step two, find Harry. Step three—hopefully get off.

He succeeds more or less in step one, pushing his way to the kitchen, where he grabs a can of beer, because he’s not nearly stupid enough to try the punch. It’s shit beer, but it’ll do. Step two proves to be harder, with the number of people there, but he does run across the beer pong table, where as usual Niall is winning the tournament. Bressie, his usual partner and fellow undefeated champion, isn’t there, but Liam’s next to him and, from the amount of cheers, seems to be doing well enough.

Zayn knows better than to distract them, but if Liam’s here…sure enough, Sophia’s cheering him from the sidelines, her grin wide and so fond as she watches Liam’s face light up as he sinks a ball.

“Hey.” She turns to him, her face twisting a little in surprise. “You seen Harry?”

“He’s around. Go Liam!” she interrupts herself, then turns back to him. “He got you to come? The boys didn’t think he’d manage it.”

Zayn shrugs. “He’s persuasive.”

“I bet he is.” She nods. “I like your sweater.”

“Bit silly to wear to a party,” Zayn admits. But it was cold out, and he looks good in the sweater. And he’s not going to cater to…this.

Sophia shakes her head. “Nah, it looks good on you. It fits. I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” she goes on. Zayn’s eyebrows go up. He’s talked with her a bit, because she’s at the house a lot too, but they’ve never really had anything to talk about. He’s not sure what he’d have in common with a sorority girl. “I wanted to thank you, for helping Liam out in class. He’s been doing a lot better, and it’s just…thanks.”

Zayn blinks. It’s surprisingly heartfelt. Or maybe not surprisingly, he doesn’t know; it’s just sweet, in the way Sophia and Liam often are. “Yeah, of course.”

“I know he appreciates it,” she goes on, then—“Liam!”

Liam grabs her waist to spin her around, ending with her tucked against his side. He’s clearly drunk, his face flushed and his grin sloppy, but she still shrieks with laughter.

“What do I appreciate?” he asks, pressing his lips to her cheek. “Is it you? I do appreciate you, baby.”

“You better.” She laughs, and turns to kiss him properly. Zayn rolls his eyes. It’s almost saccharine.

“You okay?” Liam asks, sobering a little when he separates from her. “He hasn’t—”

“Nope,” she replies, her hand sliding over his shoulders. “Just been chatting with Zayn, here.”

“Zayn!” Liam’s eyes fix on him. “Woah, you’re here!”

“Always so surprised.”

“Yeah, Niall won twenty bucks. I thought Harry’d just find you after,” Liam nods, earnest. “But you’re here! Hey, have you met Paul?”

Paul, who is apparently the guy walking past, pauses. “Liam?”

“Hey!” Liam lets go of Sophia to give him half a hug. “This is Zayn. Paul’s on the crew team with me,” he explains to Zayn, then to Paul, “Zayn’s the reason I’m not flunking off the team.”

“Then I like you,” Paul agrees. He’s got a nice smile, and a nicer body, showcased by his tight Alpha Rho t-shirt. And Zayn’s not blind enough to miss the flicker of interest in his gaze as he looks at Zayn. Interesting. “We’d be lost without Liam.”

“You’ll like each other,” Liam goes on, nodding enthusiastically. “You both like Batman. Oh, hey, look, Niall’s starting another game!” Sophia laughs as he drags her off, and Zayn shakes his head at them as they go.

“So.” Paul gives a lopsided grin. “Batman, huh?”

He’s chill enough, Zayn guesses, as weird as it is to be talking Christopher Nolan when they have to yell over the music, but he’s also very wrong about the Superman movie, so Zayn starts to get into it enough his beer can almost turns over. But nothing falls out. Huh, he must have drunk it. 

Paul laughs, a high nervous sort of thing. It’s the first sound he’s made in a while, because maybe Zayn’s been ranting a bit, because his opinions are very wrong and very uneducated. “You need another?” he asks, nodding at the can. “Not often hot boys can talk Batman to me.”

“Um.” Zayn rubs at his earring. He’d seen the interest, but he doesn’t want to be a jackass. And Paul’s not his type. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

“You sure?” Paul takes a step forward, into Zayn’s space. Zayn takes a step back, but he matches it. “We could dance.”

“No,” Zayn repeats, firm. “No. Bye.”

“Where are you going?” Paul asks, as Zayn twists around him to go find anyone else.

“Somewhere where I won’t be hit on,” Zayn retorts. He’d tried to turn him down politely, so it’s time to ditch the politeness. “I thought I’d at least be free of that here.”

“So what, you thought I just listened to that for kicks? Why the fuck’d you come?” Paul demands, and Zayn opens his mouth to tell him he really didn’t want to—then there are hands on his hips, breath on his neck.

“Hey, baby,” Harry purrs. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Not your baby,” Zayn retorts, but he can’t help smiling, at the feel of Harry against him, his grip tightening on Zayn. “You knew I was coming.”

“I hoped.” Harry presses a kiss to his cheek, then out of the corner of his eye Zayn can see him fix a look at Paul. “Hey, Smithwick. What’s up?”

“Not much, apparently.” Paul raises his hands, palm up, but there’s still a sneer as he glares at Zayn. “You could have just said you had a boyfriend, man.”

“Excuse me for expecting a no to mean no,” Zayn spits back, and Harry’s hands tighten on his hip, like he’s expecting to have to hold Zayn back from attacking. Which, if they weren’t somewhere where Paul presumably has a lot of backup, Zayn might consider.

“Whatever.” Paul rolls his eyes, downs his beer, and turns to walk away. Zayn snorts.

“Good to know it’s anyone they hit on who they don’t take a no from, not just girls, I guess,” Zayn muses, then he’s distracted by Harry’s breath against his cheek, the feel of him against his back.

Zayn pulls away a bit, just so he can turn around. Harry looks good. His hair’s loose, and Zayn forgets sometimes how long it is, how nicely it curls, when it’s not pulled back. He’s got those tight jeans on again, and his shirt is open again, and he looks solid and climbable.

Harry smirks a little as Zayn’s gaze travels over him. “So, is that a no to me, too?”

“Shut up.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “I’m here, what am I supposed to do now?”

“Have I ever told you how much I like these jeans?” Harry asks, ignoring Zayn’s reply. He hooks his fingers into the highest rip on Zayn’s thighs, his fingers brushing the skin there. Zayn shivers, despite the heat. “Such a fucking tease.”

“I thought being a tease was a bad thing,” Zayn replies, and Harry’s dimples flash.

“Only if there isn’t payoff.” His hands slide up to Zayn’s belt loops, tug him closer. “Let’s dance.”

“No.” Zayn shakes his head, and he doesn’t pull away, because he doesn’t want to be farther from Harry, but he is firm about it. “No, I don’t dance.”

“Why not?” Harry’s lips press together in a ridiculous pout.

“I can’t dance,” Zayn amends. Harry chuckles, shakes his head.

“No one who fucks like you can’t dance.”

“That’s—it doesn’t work like that,” Zayn insists. “I look like an idiot when I dance.”

“So do I, that’s not the point.” Harry’s hands are on his lower back now, spreading wide under the sweater. “I don’t care if we look like idiots, I want to dance with you.”

He grins, hopeful, and Zayn lets out a breath. How’s he supposed to say no to that?

“Fine,” he mutters, and Harry’s grin only deepens.

The music is the sort of bass-heavy hiphop that always plays at places like this, loud enough that the bass is really all that matters. Zayn almost backs out twice before Harry finally starts moving his hips to the beat, but he’s not going to just not do it because he’s afraid. And then—and then he forgets about looking like an idiot. About anything but Harry’s body against his, their hips moving together, Harry’s hands on him, Harry’s back under his hands.

Harry dances like he fucks, sure and teasing, something playful in it. Zayn just tries to match him, tries to seem like he knows what he’s doing and he’s not getting turned on, until he tilts his head back and Harry’s lips are there and he doesn’t give a fuck about being that person with the dance floor makeouts, he presses his lips to Harry’s. Harry tastes like beer and the cherry gum he likes, like Harry, and he kisses back to the beat, until Zayn can feel it in every inch of him. Then his lips are leaving Zayn’s, trailing down his neck, and he finds a spot he must like because he latches on, biting then sucking until Zayn’s head falls back and his breath’s gone too fast. They don’t do this, they haven’t, the marking thing, there wasn’t a place for it, but he doesn’t have objections, he just needs—

“Stop,” He says, pushing at Harry’s head. Harry blinks, slow and dazed, almost. His lips look swollen already, and Zayn wants to bite them, wants to feel them on him.

“Was that not—” he starts, but Zayn cuts him off, sliding his hands into the back pockets of Harry’s jeans so they’re pressed so close together he knows Harry can feel his semi, how much he wants him.

“We need a room, now,” Zayn murmurs, into his ear, and he can feel Harry’s body go rigid with that.

“Fuck, yeah,” Harry breathes, and then Zayn doesn’t know who’s being pulled, as they hurry out of the house.

One of the advantages to the Greek system, Zayn has to admit, is that Harry’s house is only a few houses away, and so they manage to make it to the hallway before Zayn gives up and grabs Harry, kissing him hard, like he wanted to on the dance floor. Harry moans into his mouth, stumbles back against the wall, pulling him closer and closer until there’s nothing to it but to climb him like Zayn always wants to, pulling himself up so Harry has to hold him there, and isn’t that a turn on too, that Harry can just hold him up so Zayn can focus on his hands in Harry’s hair, their lips together.

“Bedroom, come on,” he says into Harry’s neck, as he explores the skin there, and Harry groans and obeys. Zayn assumes they get through the hallway, but he just knows the door’s slammed behind them and Harry’s pressing him against the wall, their hips grinding together. Harry finds the same place he’d been biting before, sucks hard, and it’s going to bruise and Zayn doesn’t care, just wants more of him.

Somehow, he gets a hand between them, cupping Harry through his jeans before he fumbles with the button, and Harry’s arms falter, so Zayn slides down.

“Fuck Zayn,” Harry breathes, “Be careful, I’m gonna drop you.”

“Fine.” Zayn huffs out a breath, and lets his legs fall to the floor. “But one day you’re holding me there as you fuck me.”

“Hell yeah,” Harry agrees, breathlessly, and Zayn grins and pushes at him until they’re on the bed.  

He doesn’t know how they lose their clothes, but they do, and then his back’s on the mattress as Harry closes his lips around him and Zayn moans, because Harry’s so fucking good with his mouth, and he doesn’t even notice any pain as Harry opens him up too, just the pleasure of it, until he’s grinding down onto Harry’s fingers and trying not to fuck into his mouth and, “Please, Harry, just fuck me already, want you—”

Harry pulls off, licking his lips, and there’s the smug again but Zayn doesn’t care, he deserves it. “You’re pretty when you’re begging for me,” he tells Zayn, like he always does, and Zayn would rolls his eyes if he didn’t really want Harry’s cock in him.

“Hurry the fuck up,” he retorts, and Harry laughs.

It’s too much, and not enough, and Zayn shoves at Harry until he’s on his back and Zayn’s over him, can look at Harry all gorgeous muscles and swollen lips and hot eyes, and his hands closing over Zayn’s hips as he lowers himself onto Harry’s dick, and even after these months Harry’s still so mouthwateringly big. And he waits, patient, mouthing at Zayn’s chest, his jaw, until Zayn starts to move, rocking his hips, then starting to rise and fall on Harry, Harry’s hands tight like they’re going to bruise.

Harry fucks up into Zayn like he’d danced, slow and confident and sure, pulling Zayn down to kiss him, matching their rhythms.

“Please, Harry, come on, I’m close, harder, fuck,” Zayn’s a mess of words and pleas and he feels spread open, bared, as Harry moves in him and he doesn’t even care, he just wants Harry closer, wants everything. He thinks his legs are going to give out, but not yet, can’t be yet—Harry shifts, and then he’s hitting Zayn’s prostate and Zayn might whine, he’s too far gone to deny it. He shifts his balance, relying more on Harry to keep him steady, so he can wrap a hand around his own cock, give himself some relief.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Harry grunts out, somehow in awe, and Zayn tightens his grip on his cock just enough to make him shudder, so close. “Come for me, baby, come on, want to see you—”

The orgasm crashes over him, somehow almost a surprise, and everything in him tightens and relaxes as it does. Harry keeps fucking him through it, as eking out the last of the pleasure, then they’re rolling and Harry’s over him again, fucking into him hard and fast as he chases his own orgasm.

Zayn drags his fingers down Harry’s back as he sags back into the bed, reveling in the endorphins. “Come on, baby,” He murmurs, because he might be an asshole, “Come for me, babe, want to feel you,” and then Harry groans something that he thinks is his name and comes, his cock throbbing in Zayn.

Harry collapses on Zayn, burying his face in his neck, and Zayn strokes Harry’s hair, gently detangling the curls, until Harry’s breathing steadies out.

Zayn doesn’t know how long they lie there, until Harry lifts his head. He’s grinning, his eyes somehow both mischievous and sleepy with contentment. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Zayn tugs on Harry’s hair, just enough to be felt. “You gonna let me breathe?”

“Maaaaybe,” Harry drawls, but he’s careful as he pulls out, discards the condom, gets some sort of rag to clean off Zayn’s stomach. Zayn lounges in the bed as he does, watching him, because it’s a very pretty sight. Then Harry flops back down next to him.

“Happy I got you to the party?” Harry asks, self-satisfied.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “We could have skipped the party and come here.”

“I liked the dancing.”

“Yeah, well, I was serious about fucking me against the wall.” Harry’s eyes go dark.

“Give me ten minutes.”

Zayn snorts, and shoves at Harry’s head. Harry lets it fall back onto the pillow, laughing, and Zayn shoves at him again, but he’s laughing too. It’s just so easy to laugh, with Harry. To not care what he looks like, naked in bed and racked with giggles.

Harry stops laughing first, and he props himself up on one arm so he can grin at Zayn. His grins fades a little, and Zayn’s making a confused face when he trails his hand down just enough to press on the bruise Zayn knows is forming on his neck.

“That’s gonna be a sight, isn’t it?” Zayn asks. He’s almost dreading looking at it. He wonders about the chances of anyone here having a scarf to cover it with.

“Yeah.” Harry’s face is doing some complicated thing, but it’s not entirely regretful, Zayn can tell. “Sorry.”

“No you aren’t.”

“No I’m not,” Harry agrees. His face does that thing again. “What were you and Smithwick talking about?”

“Smithwick?” It’s hard to remember anything that happened more than ten minutes ago, but Zayn vaguely remembers. “You mean Paul, that crew kid?”  Harry shrugs, and looks down at Zayn’s chest, where he can trace the lips there.

“You just. Looked friendly.”

“Are you jealous?” Zayn asks, and he has to laugh. Harry’s cheeks are a little red, and it makes him feel better, somehow. That Harry can blush. “Oh, babe.”

“Not jealous.” Harry still isn’t looking at him. “Just…he’s hot. He’s an asshole, but you think we all are, and—”

“I didn’t.” Zayn puts a hand under Harry’s chin, tilts it up so he has to look at Zayn. “Harry, I haven’t, for, like, months. Not with anyone else.”

Harry’s smile is almost blinding, despite the sheepishness in it. “Me neither.”

“Good.” It comes out as a hiss, and Zayn hadn’t known it would, but the thought of Harry with anyone else—of anyone else touching him, of him touching anyone—makes his fists clench and his eyes narrow.

“Are you jealous?” Harry laughs, and flicks at his nose.

“No,” Zayn mutters. “But if you do, and you don’t tell me…”

Harry sobers. “I won’t if you won’t.”

“Yeah.” Zayn’s the one not meeting Harry’s eyes now. “Yeah, I won’t.”

“Good.” Harry presses his lips to the ones on Zayn’s chest. “Now, give me those ten minutes. Then I think you had some fantasies you wanted to explore?”

“I’m gonna fall asleep, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zayn tells him, and pokes at Harry’s dimples as Harry curls up next to him.

\----

It’s barely ten when Zayn gets back to his apartment. He blames Harry entirely for getting him up that early on a Sunday, because he has his weird thing about getting up early for a run, and though that never wakes Zayn up, he also has his thing for using all the endorphins or whatever from said run by coaxing Zayn awake with his mouth on his dick, which, Zayn admits, is not the worst way to wake up of a morning.

But it does mean that he’s seeing this side of noon for the first time in what feels like years. It’s not exactly a habit he wants to continue—what he’d wanted to do is go back to sleep after he’d returned the favor, kissing Harry sleepily as he jerked him off, tasting the sweat on his skin. But there were initiation things to do, it seemed, and Zayn wasn’t allowed to be privy to that. Not that he wanted to be. But it meant he was back here for the day.

He doesn’t expect anyone to be there, when he walks in. With any luck Jawaad’s still at Maria’s place, or they’re asleep here. But the first thing Zayn sees when he comes in is Jawaad’s back, hunched over the sink.

“Hey, didn’t expect to see you.” Zayn closes the door, kicks off his boots. “No luck last night?”

“Didn’t expect to see you,” Jawaad retorts. His voice sounds a little clogged. Maybe he’s sick. “Didn’t know you knew mornings existed.”

“I try not to,” Zayn agrees, and wanders into the kitchen. Coffee sounds good. Liam had made some in the morning, but he could do for more. “But Harry was up early, got me up.”

“Bet he did.” He says it jokingly, but Jawaad’s still not looking at him, and there’s something weird to the set of his shoulders. It reminds Zayn of when Jawaad was ten and his sister picked on him, or when he was thirteen and his dog died.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, ‘m fine.” When Zayn leans over the sink, Jawaad turns away, towards the fridge. If he’s trying not to make Zayn suspicious, he’s failing. And Zayn’s good mood is rapidly spiraling. “Are you actually staying awake? You don’t want to go back to bed?”

“I want you to tell me why you aren’t looking at me,” Zayn snaps. “You didn’t get a stupid tattoo, did you? I—fucking hell,” he swears, as Jawaad turns around.

His face is a mottled pattern of purples and yellows and greens, his left eye clearly blackened, a checkerboard of scrapes across his collarbone. His nose was clearly bleeding, and probably started again recently—the sink, Zayn thinks, in the part of him that isn’t red-hot rage. That’s why he was there.

He moves forward without thinking, getting closer to examine it. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Jawaad tries, but Zayn shakes his head. He’s been in enough fights to know just how bad it is. And to know what it looks like when you were in a fight, and outmatched.

“Who did this?” he hisses out. “What happened?”

“Zayn, I’m okay,” Jawaad lets out a weak chuckle. “You’ve got your own bruises to worry about, it looks like.” He nods at Zayn’s neck. Zayn ignores him.

“What happened?” He repeats. This isn’t just a fight, and there’s barely anything on Jawaad’s knuckles, even though he knows his cousin wouldn’t just put up with this. This was a beating. “Actually, no. Go sit on the couch. I’m getting you ice, then you’re going to tell me exactly what happened.”

“You’re not my mum, I don’t need—”

“Ice,” Zayn snaps, and Jawaad goes. Zayn grabs some frozen peas he has no idea why they even have from the freezer, wraps them in a dish towel. His hands are shaking, he notices idly.

He hands the ice pack to Jawaad in the living room, then sits on the coffee table facing him, so he can properly supervise him putting the ice on his eye. There aren’t any other bruises Zayn can see around his jeans and loose t-shirt, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Ribs, Zayn bets. They always go for the ribs.

“Talk.”

Jawaad sighs. “It’s not—”

“Talk.”

“Fine.” Jawaad rolls his one eye. “It turns out her ex doesn’t like me much.”

“What?”

“Maria? Her ex has some problems, I guess. With me. And them being over.” Jawaad looks down, his voice blank. “She wanted to go to this party last night, she has friends there, so we went after dinner. It was going well, I thought? She seemed to like me, and we were dancing, and all that shit. Then, well. Some of the brothers saw. And I guess he didn’t think it was as over as she did.”

“Brothers?” Zayn’s stomach flips, but of course. Of fucking course it was them, all those people who he’d fought in middle school, in high school, before he got wise to it and learned to use words instead.

“Yeah, you know. Frat. They were at the party she wanted to go to.”

“Bitch,” Zayn spits. “And keep that ice on it.”

“No, she—she tried to stop them, she didn’t think this would happen.” Jawaad shakes his head. Zayn huffs out a breath, and gets up to go find the aspirin. He’s going to kill someone. That’s the only answer. He’s not sure if it’s going to be Maria, for putting Jawaad in this position, or Jawaad, for being stupid enough to let her, or the frat bros, for doing it, or himself, for letting it happen, but someone.

“Here.” He hands the aspirin bottle and a glass of water to Jawaad. “Where were you? Could we report them?”

“Doubt it. We were at the Pi Sig house, at the party.”

Zayn’s fingers clench into fists. They were at the party. He’d been there. He’d been there, and this had been happening, and where the fuck had he been?

“When?” he forces out from between his teeth.

“I don’t know, late? I was drunk, they got me out back.” Jawaad shakes his head. “I didn’t want you to see, you don’t have to do anything—”

“Fuck that.” Zayn’s on his feet before he can think, starting to pace. He’d been there. He’d been there, but he’d left to go fuck around with Harry, and some stupid fucking assholes had thought it was okay to beat up his cousin because of their stupid fucking entitled privilege. “I have to—”

“Just let it be, okay?” Jawaad sighs again, and lowers the ice pack. His eye’s a sunrise. Zayn hisses again, in sympathy and anger. He’s not supposed to look like that. Zayn’s supposed to stop him from looking like that, supposed to stand between him and any danger that will hurt him. “You can’t do anything against them. There’s like, twenty guys in the Pi Sigs, and they’re all massive.”

“They can’t just do this,” Zayn tells him, tells the world. They can’t just get away with this because they’re rich and big and have the numbers, because they think it’s okay to. “I won’t—”

“Zayn, don’t.” He raises the ice again. “Help me clean up, okay? Maria’s coming over later, I want it to be nice.”

“She’s coming over?” Fuck her, she’s the reason this happened.

“Yeah.” Jawaad smiles, and it’s odd on his bruised, beaten face, but it’s proud and shy all at once. “She feels responsible, so she wanted to come over and, well. Kiss my wounds.”

“Of course.” Zayn rolls his eyes, but he gets up. His fists are still clenched. “At least she feels responsible.”

“It’s not her fault,” Jawaad says again, insistent enough Zayn considers believing him. “She said he was sweet before he started really getting into the whole Pi Sig mentality, and then she broke up with him. They’re not together. She didn’t know he would still think he had a claim on her or anything.”

“What did she think, he’d not be a Neanderthal?” Zayn mutters, but he takes a deep breath, pushes all that rage down, like he’d learned to, when his dad finally sat him down and told him the fights had to stop, or he wasn’t going to get into a good college. There isn’t anything he can do about it, not now, other than go back in time and tell himself there were more important things than getting off. He can at least make up for it. Make sure Maria knows just how badly she fucked up. “Tip your head back. Your nose is bleeding.”

Jawaad obeys, making a face. “Is this what it was like to be you?”

“Hm?”

“When you got in all those fights, in grade school. This what it felt like?”

Zayn looks at him, at his bruised little cousin. He should be bruised like that, instead of Jawaad.

“Guess so,” he says, and tries out a grin. It doesn’t sit right on his face.

\---

“Hey, you okay?”

Zayn shuts his computer before he looks at Harry. He hadn’t known Harry knew that there were Monday lectures, but he’d shown up only five minutes late, slipping into the seat next to Zayn with a proud grin like he was amazed at himself too that he was there. It was cute, and Zayn couldn’t say he really objected when he’d done a not very subtle reach so that his arm was on the back of Zayn’s chair, but Zayn admittedly hadn’t been paying much attention. To him, or the lecture, really.

“I’m fine.” He is. He just spent a good part of the last twenty-four hours watching Maria coo over Jawaad’s wounds—because she did seem, he could begrudgingly acknowledge, very contrite and very into Jawaad. And then not even Claire had thought he should do anything about it, had told him that retaliation wasn’t the answer, and he should just report it and be done. But Jawaad’s bruises were fading into a sickly green, and Zayn just—he couldn’t do that. Couldn’t just report it, when they all knew nothing would happen.

“You’ve been fidgeting all class.” Harry offers him a hand out of his seat, which Zayn rolls his eyes at but takes, then keeps a hold of it, not letting Zayn go back to drumming against his leg as they leave the room. “Did something happen?”

“It’s fine,” Zayn repeats. He’s fine. It’s not Harry’s business.

“Okay.” Harry gives him a look that clearly says he doesn’t believe him, but he lets it go. He nods to some guy coming up the stairs in an Alpha Rho shirt, who grunts back. It’s so Neanderthalish. Of course they would be, Neanderthals who grunt and hit and fucking hell he’s going to kill them all. “So, you can’t come over tonight either—we have another Rush ceremony.”

“Is this the one where you have the orgy?”

“I don’t have orgies without you, promise,” Harry grins at him, waggles his eyebrows until Zayn snorts and rolls his eyes, then pushes the door open to the cloudy grey day outside. A good metaphor for his mood, Zayn thinks, very pathetic fallacy. “No, they—well I can’t tell you what they do, but it’s not like the movies. No hospitalizations for five years!”

He sounds proud of that fact. Like it’s something out of the ordinary. Zayn huffs out a breath, shaking his head. “That’s—what?”

Harry’s face is suddenly hard, the easy smile dying as his eyes narrow, looking across Zayn at something. “One second,” he mutters, and pulls out his phone.

Zayn follows his gaze. Sophia’s sitting on a bench, looking as picture perfect as always, her sunglasses covering most of her face. There’s a guy standing in front of her, some weedy East Asian kid leaning forward like he’s asking something.

“What are you doing?”

“Texting Liam. He needs to know about this.” Harry’s hands close around his phone. He’s still glaring in that direction. Glaring. Like it’s a federal crime. “I should do something.”

“About what, that she’s talking to a boy? How dare she!” Zayn yanks his hand away from Harry to throw it into the air. “Because it’s not like anyone can talk to another guy, right?”

“Zayn, I—” Harry shakes his head. “Stay here.”

“What? No fucking way,” Zayn retorts, but Harry’s jogging across the quad until he can come up behind the kid. He’s almost a full head taller than him, and probably weighs twice as much, and he looms, there’s no other word for it, his hand probably heavy on the kid’s shoulder. Zayn can’t hear what he’s saying, but he knows that body language. He’s had that body language used on him, when someone bigger than you is looming over you and your fight or flight reflex is going, when you didn’t do anything other than exist—or talk to some girl that he probably had a good reason to talk to—and suddenly you’re attacked for it. Zayn’s fists clench. That’s probably what Jawaad looked like Saturday night, surrounded by the Pi Sig brothers, and with just as little reason. Because they can, because he can, because he thinks he owns her, even though he’s not even her fucking boyfriend.

Harry says something, and the boy glares back, but he shakes off Harry’s hand and stalks away. Sophia doesn’t even object, just says something to Harry, but maybe she’s used to being objectified like that, but fuck that. Fuck everything. Fuck Harry, for being one of them.   

Zayn turns on his heel to stalk away too. He can’t be here. He doesn’t know why he’s here, even. Why he’s waiting like he’s one of them too.

“Zayn!” Harry calls, and he’s got longer legs so of course he catches up to Zayn before he’s away. Before he can get away. “Where are you going?”

“Away.” Zayn spits, and keeps walking. He’d thought—but he’d been an idiot. He hadn’t thought. He’d been fucking seduced by nice arms and a dimpling smile and good sex and he’d forgotten just what Harry was.

“Okay, where away?” Harry asks, and falls into step with him. “I think I want froyo.”

He’s so casual about it. Of course he is. Because that kid probably didn’t mean anything, and Zayn can’t—

“What the fuck was that?” he demands, stopping so he can stare Harry down.

“What?”

“So you just go threaten some kid for talking to Liam’s girlfriend?” Zayn snaps. He doesn’t know why he expected anything different, but he just—fucking hell. “For _talking_ to her? What, is that only a threat offense? If he’d dared bump into her that’s what, a punch to the ribs? Because heaven forbid she have male friends.”

“Zayn,” Harry starts, but Zayn’s not stopping. He doesn’t get to explain. He doesn’t get to spew some garbage about how he was helping, or look hurt, like he’s the victim here. He doesn’t know what it means to be the victim.

“You’re all the same, aren’t you? You might as well have beat up Jawaad yourself.”

“What? Zayn, did something—”

He probably knows already. There’s probably some sort of email blast, if they’ve figured out that technology, of all the kids they put in hospitals. Maybe along with all the girls they’ve fucked.

“Fuck you,” Zayn spits. He can’t be here. He can’t be near Harry, or he’s going to punch him, and who knows what would happen then. It’s Harry’s fault. It’s the fault of people like Harry, and Zayn’s been fucking him, been forgetting that he’s everything wrong with the world. “Fuck you and all you musclebound closed-minded privileged imbeciles who never even think about anyone else.”

Harry’s opening his mouth, but Zayn spins on his heel and stalks away. He can’t believe he ever thought it was okay to sleep with someone like that. That he might be okay. Of course Harry’s just like the rest of them, a frat bro’s a frat bro no matter his spots or how well he uses his dick.

Zayn slams the door to his apartment shut when he gets home, but no one’s there to hear, apparently. So he throws himself onto his bed and grabs his computer. He doesn’t need this shit. He’ll think about Pynchon. That’s worth his time. Harry wasn’t.

\---

Jawaad doesn’t come home that night, but he texts Zayn that he’s at Maria’s, so instead of worrying Zayn spends his time playing some World of Warcraft and killing orcs. It’s a good way to do what he wants to but can’t, which is to go burn down the frat houses. He skips lecture the next day, spends it in the library. He’s more productive than he has been in weeks, which just goes to show he’s right. He was just distracted by a hot body, it happens to everyone.

He shows up at the meeting for the magazine in a foul mood still despite that productivity. He’s tense. He’s tense and angry and he just grunts when Claire says hi to him as he comes into the seminar room and throws himself into his seat.

She raises her eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

“Now that we’re all here,” she says instead, addressing the table, “Why don’t we start the meeting?”

They go around discussing ideas for the magazine, what they have, what they will. It’s pointlessly early, given it won’t be out until January, but Zayn just sits there listening anyway. It’s somewhere to be, at least.

“So, for a theme.” Claire looks around. “Any ideas?”

“Winter?” comes a voice from down the table, one of the sophomores, Zayn thinks.

Zayn snorts. “Original.”

Claire gives him a warning look. “That’s been done before,” she points out, though. “Anyone else? Let’s think outside the box.”

“What about something for the holidays?” Ian, a junior who thinks he’s far smarter than he is, suggests. “Not Christmas spirit or anything, but, like, the future? Resolutions? Choices?”

“No one’s ever written about choices before,” Zayn mutters. Claire kicks him. Zayn probably deserved it, so he doesn’t kick back. But he’s not wrong.

“I like that sort of idea,” Claire agrees. “Maybe something a little more specific, that Zayn can do something for the cover for? I don’t know what choices would be but all I can think of is a Venn diagram.”

Some freshman with a bowl cut and a Rolling Stones t-shirt mumbles something. “What?” Claire asks.

The freshman shoots Zayn a look that’s halfway to terrified, but he speaks up. “Time?”

Zayn rolls his eyes and sinks down into his chair. He was wrong. This wasn’t better. He’s not helping anyone being here. He should just go. If only he didn’t know Claire would kick his ass for bailing.

An hour later, they don’t haven’t finalized everything, but there are some halfway decent ideas Zayn can play with and see if he can do anything with by next meeting. It’s better than some meetings, which have devolved into arguments about the line between poetry and prose and how much they can mess with layout of a given story.

Zayn waits until all the rest of the students are gone before, “Well that was a useful meeting,” he drawls.

“What is up with you?” Claire asks, instead of responding. “Are we keeping you from something? Do you want to go fuck your—oh,” she cuts herself off, probably reacting to Zayn’s scowl. “Did something go wrong?”

Zayn pushes to his feet so he can pace, stare out the window onto the quad. “I realized you were right,” he mutters. It’s not an easy thing to say, not even to Claire, not even admitting something he should have known from the beginning. “A bro’s a bro. And they’re all the same.”

“They are,” Claire agrees.  

“Right?” Zayn whirls to point a finger at her. She’s the first person who’s agreed with him, but then, she’s always hated that type as much as him. More, probably—he had been able to fight back, in a way she hadn’t. He’d had his family, she’d had hers, who were the worst of all of them. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it.”

“Because you were blinded by his dick,” Claire retorts. Zayn snorts.

“Still. He might not have beaten up Jawaad, but he might as well have.”

“That’s not fair.” Marta presses a kiss to Claire’s cheek in greeting before sitting in her lap, kicking up her feet so her striped purple and red knee socks show. “He didn’t, right?”

“No, but he looked like he was about to punch this kid who was talking to Liam’s girlfriend.” Zayn huffs. “It’s the mold. You can’t break it. He chose to be in a frat, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Marta allows. “But he chose you too.”

“Because I’m pretty and he likes to fuck me.” Zayn dismisses it with a wave. He knew exactly why Harry’d come after him, because frat bros think pretty people are theirs for the taking and don’t take no for an answer. “It’s not…” he shakes his head. He’s not even angry about Harry, really. He is, but he should have known better, shouldn’t have ever gotten comfortable there, among those boys. Shouldn’t have started looking for exceptions rather than at the rule. “I need to do something.”

“I’m sure we can find someone else for you to fuck,” Claire says, laughing. “I’m certain Ian would jump at the chance.”

“Not about that.”

“Are you sure? You weren’t this high strung when you were getting laid.”

“About the Pi Sigs. They can’t—they’re just getting away with it,” Zayn’s fingers are drumming against his leg, and he circles the table, pacing. “Jawaad won’t report it and it wouldn’t matter if he did. I need to do something. I need to make them pay.”

“Zayn, we talked about this,” Marta replies, her voice sweet and calming, like his mum’s was when he’d come home from high school buzzing with the need to retaliate. “That’s not the way. We’ve got all sorts of campaigns to reign them in—”

“And by the time those take effect the ones who did it will have graduated!” Zayn bites out.

“And what else can you do?” Claire asks, shrugging. “I know it’s infuriating, but it’s the fact. And Maria broke up with him anyway. There’s nothing else you can do.”

“Fuck that.” Zayn turns his back on the girls again, stares out the window. It’s dark out by now, though he can still see people walking across the quad. “It’s not enough.”

\---

It’s hard to sleep. It’s embarrassing, because Zayn can sleep anywhere, but he hasn’t slept in his own bed for weeks, really, and he’s not used to it. Harry might have been infuriating, but he was warm, and he’d been a body in the bed, and it was much nicer to fall asleep to the regular white noise of Harry’s snores than to the angry impotence circling in Zayn’s brain. Like it was much nicer to wake up to Harry’s smile, or a lazy morning blow job, than to Zayn’s alarm.

Not that it matters, Zayn tells himself, as he rolls out of bed. He might have been a good fuck, and had a great smile, and he’d made Zayn laugh, but he’d been an asshole underneath.

He pulls on a t-shirt, grabs the closest pair of sweats he can find—then drops them. They’re Harry’s. He knows they are, because they’d felt too big, and he only owns maybe one pair of pajama pants, and—no.

He swaps them out for the closest pair of jeans, then stumbles out into the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

“Make some yourself,” Jawaad retorts. The bruises have gone down on his face.

Zayn grunts, and heads to the coffee machine. It was so much easier when coffee was already made when he got downstairs, or when Harry grabbed him some on his way up. Not that that matters.

 Jawaad doesn’t say anything when he finishes his first cup, just eats his cereal in silence. Zayn gets up to pour himself another mugful, because he did not get enough sleep for just one mugful, then grabs some leftover pizza from the fridge to eat because it’ll take the least effort before he sits down again.

“More rush things?” Jawaad asks, when Zayn’s settled again.

Zayn raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“I didn’t expect you home again,” Jawaad shrugs, taking a casual bite of his cereal. “Is Harry busy with more rush things?”

Zayn can feel his eyebrow furrowing, glaring at his coffee. “No.”

“Are you managing to not get laid for a night? Amazing,” Jawaad snorts. “You’re lucky I didn’t bring Maria home.”

“Yeah, lucky.” Zayn drinks his coffee faster, but he really doesn’t want to think about having to hear that. “So don’t do that tonight either, I’ll be here too. Or at least warn me, I’ll put in headphones.”

“Tonight too? Harry really must be busy.”

Zayn scowls again. He wishes people would just let it go. “No. That’s just done.”

“Done?” Jawaad repeats, and he finally puts his cereal bowl down. His eyes are wide. “Why? When? Really?”

“Monday. Because he’s a fratboy asshole, and I don’t need people like that around. Clearly.” He nods at Jawaad. He’ll get what he means, about his face.

“Fuck that.” Jawaad’s voice is tight enough that Zayn looks up, confused. Jawaad had never even liked Harry, why was he mad? “You don’t need to break up with your boyfriend because of me.”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend, and it wasn’t a break up.” At least Zayn’d had that much sense, to not say the words. Almost—it’d been there, that last day, on the tip of his tongue, but—he hadn’t. He’d held it back. Thankfully. “And I can do what I want.”

“Well you don’t have to.” Jawaad sets his jaw, the same stubborn expression they share. “You don’t have to fight my battles for me, Zayn. And this won’t do anything.”

Zayn shoves his chair back as he gets to his feet. How dare he. Like he knows fuck all about fighting battles. “I stopped things between us because he’s just as bad as the rest of them, not because of you,” he snaps. “And yes, I do. You’re my cousin, and I’m going to protect you whether you want it or not.”

“I don’t need you to!” Jawaad yells back, and he’s on his feet too. He’s taller than Zayn, like everyone is, and Zayn doesn’t give a fuck. “I’m an adult, and I don’t need you doing all this shit for me. I can do it myself.”

“Then act like it.” Zayn slams the mug down onto the table, and Jawaad jumps. “Don’t take fucking months to make a move on a girl because you’re afraid. Don’t lie back and take it when people beat you up. You have no idea how much I’ve taken the burdens off of you, so learn how to deal with this one.”

“By fighting? Because that worked so well for you.” Jawaad spits back

“By doing something!” Zayn throws up his hands.  “Report them, do something. Otherwise, they’ll think it’s okay, and they’ll do it again.” Zayn’s fingers are digging into his palms, his fists clenched. “If you don’t want me to fight your battles for you, fight your own goddamn battles.” He turns his back on Jawaad. He needs to get out of here.

He makes it to the door before he has something to add. “And maybe next time your cousin breaks up with someone, try not making it about you,” he throws over his shoulder, and then he gets to his room and slams the door.

Fuck him. Zayn grabs the first sweatshirt that comes to hand, pulls it on over his jeans. He thinks he’s an adult—and maybe he is—but he has no idea how many battles he didn’t fight because Zayn fought them first. How many doors Zayn fought tooth and nail to open so he could walk through them. He thinks it’s so fucking easy, that he can just exist without fighting.

He’s halfway to Greek Row before he realizes where his feet are taking him, and he stops in his tracks. It’s habit, he tells himself, stalking towards the library. Just habit, that he wants to head there and have Harry coax him out of his anger with slow smiles and bad jokes and logic. He doesn’t need that. A library can do just as well.

\---

Zayn’s calmed down a bit, by that evening. His Intersectionality in Modern Lit seminar is engaging enough that he can get out of his head, and then Dostoyevsky’s immersive enough that it takes all his brain power just to participate in that seminar, and together they’re as good as that meditation shit Harry does sometimes, not that Zayn would know. It’s enough he can grab a quick dinner to eat in the café outside the library, pounding out a couple hundred words of his thesis. It’s almost done. It’s weird, knowing that.

He shuts his computer and puts his books into his backpack before getting up, rolling his neck to get out the kinks from hunching over his computer for too long. He’ll have to go home sometime, maybe stay in his room until he’s calm enough to deal with Jawaad. The fresh air’s cold, cold enough he regrets not wearing a jacket, and he pulls his hoodie down farther so it can cover his hands.

He’s just sliding in headphones, a block away from the quad, when he sees a flash of blonde hair. Maria’s leaning against a wall, some guy in a Pi Sig baseball hat and hoodie looming over her, like Harry had before. There are other Pi Sigs around, waiting for him or maybe egging him on, but Zayn doesn’t give a fuck, when he hears the,

“You need a real man, baby. You know that. Someone who can take care of you.”

“Chip, shove off,” Maria retorts. “We’re done. I don’t know how else I can get it through your head.”

Zayn speeds up, so he can get there faster.

“I know you’re having a little sulk, playing hard to get,” Chip, apparently, agrees, his voice placating. “But baby, we both know you’ll come back to me. You’re too pretty for a burka, or whatever that fag’s going to do.”

“How is he a fag and a threat to you?” Zayn asks as he trots up, cutting in. She turns to him, her eyes widening when she recognizes him. “Did you really think that one through?”

“And who are you?” Chip asks. “You’re not her little boytoy, he’d still have a lot more decoration on his face.” Zayn’s fists clench as the other guys laugh. He can hear more feet behind him too. He’s ridiculously outnumbered, he knows that. Knows he should disengage, before he gets beaten up too. Be smart about it. “Are you helping him with his jihad?” Chip adds, laughing like it’s the most amusing joke in the world. “Gonna set a bomb in my car?”

It’s funny, Zayn thinks. That he hasn’t forgotten what it feels like to throw a punch. That Chip’s face feels exactly the same as all the other bullying Islamaphobic fuckers in high school, as his fist hits his cheek.

“Fuck!” Chip yells, stumbling back, cradling his cheek. “What the fuck—did you really just punch me?” he demands. The other Pi Sig boys are closer, and Zayn steps so Maria’s behind him. She doesn’t need to get any flack for this. “You can’t just punch me!”

“Looks like I just did,” Zayn retorts. He brings his fists up. He’s going to get so fucked over and he doesn’t even care, he’s doing something. Maybe it’ll bruise Chip enough he’ll think twice next time he beats up some kid who won’t fight back. “What are you going to do about it? Is it going to take all of you to beat just me up too?”

“Come on,” Chip spits, gesturing, and Zayn dodges Chip’s first punch. But he hasn’t fought in ages, and even when he did it was only viciousness and need and the ability to take enough punches that kept him standing, so the next one gets a glancing blow to his shoulder, and he stumbles back. The other Pi Sig boys are looming over him, pinning him in, and Chip’s laughing as he stands over him. “Thought you could just laugh at me? You’re just like that other Arab kid, thinking he can take what’s mine—”

“And what is that?” Comes a rumbling voice, at Zayn’s back. Zayn scrambles backwards, trying to avoid that too—but he hits a broad chest, and big hands set him back on his feet, and he looks back over his head to see Bressie standing there, his placid face implacable. “What exactly are you claiming as yours this time, Diller?”

They’re all there—not just Bressie towering over him, but Liam and Louis and Niall, and some of the other boys—not Harry, but others. Zayn blinks. What are they doing here?

“None of your business, Breslin,” Chip spits. “Stay out of it.”

“Nah, see, I think it is,” Louis spits back, then turns his back on Chip, looking at Zayn. “So, Zayn—what do you want?”

“What?”

“We heard what happened, with your cousin.” Niall says. Zayn’s never seen him look less jovial. “So, what do you want? Make sure it’s a fair fight? All of us on him? Big brawl?”

“We have a menu,” Louis adds, in a drawl, and Zayn’s still just blinking at them. They—he broke up with Harry, they’re frat bros, they should be on the Pi Sigs side, and they’re still here, they’re—defending him. On his side. Not telling him he’s stupid, for wanting to do this, to do something, just—

“Whatever you want, we’re here,” Liam says, and there’s a smile on his lips as he looks at Zayn.

Zayn blinks, one more time, then turns to Chip and the Pi Sigs. They’re still glaring, and Zayn can see the bruise forming on his cheek. It’ll feel good, to see that. But everything else—he knows better, he does. He knows that throwing a punch won’t help, and getting into a brawl doesn’t solve anything. He does, when he’s actually thinking.

“Nah, it’s fine.” He puts on his most condescending drawl. “I think he’s learned his lesson, yeah?”

“He better have,” Bressie rumbles, and Chip swears.

“I’ve learned that you Delta Chis are fucking pussies!” Chip retorts. “Come on, guys. Bitch doesn’t mean anything anyway.”

Right, Maria. Zayn glances around, as the Pi Sig brothers trot away, but he doesn’t see her.

“She got gone about when we came up,” Niall tells him, “Was that your cousin’s girlfriend? She was cute.”

“Yeah,” Zayn answers vaguely. But now that the Pi Sig brothers are gone, there’s just them—just these boys, who had no reason to defend him but did. “You guys—why did you do that?”

Louis throws an arm over his shoulder. “You’re one of us, aren’t you?” he says, easy. “That’s what we do. We back your play.”

“Even if it’s stupid,” Liam adds, sternly, like he is when he lectures the pledges. “What were you planning to do, fight all of them? I know you’re scrappy—”

“And that was a good punch,” Bressie puts in.

“And that was a good punch,” Liam admits, crossing his arms over his chest, “But what would you have done if we hadn’t been here?”

Zayn shrugs. He’s still not entirely sure what’s happening. “Gotten beat up, probably. But I’d have gotten some punches in.”

“Knew I liked you.” Louis uses his other hand to cuff the back of Zayn’s head, apparently affectionately. “Anyway, we were just on our way to see you.”

“To see me?” Zayn takes in the full contingent—and Harry’s absence. Coming to see him. They backed his play, but he and Harry were over. “Were you going to beat me up?”

“Of course not. We want you to take Harry back.”

Zayn’s eyebrows fly up. “Take him back?”

“Yeah,” Niall agrees. “He’s been miserable, since you guys broke up. I don’t know what he did, but whatever it is, can you just forgive him?”

“Did he ask you to come?” Zayn demands. That’s just fucking underhanded. And even if he did—he’d still threatened that boy, still done to him what the Pi Sigs had done to Jawaad. Just because his brothers had helped Zayn didn’t make that less true.

“No, he hasn’t said anything about it. Just asked about your cousin, asked what happened.” One of the other boys, a sophomore, pipes up. “I didn’t realize that was your cousin, man. I’d have done something if I’d known.”

“Then why—”

“Because he’s been a total fucking sad sap, since you dumped him,” Louis informs Zayn. He lets go of him, slides back towards his boys, so it’s Zayn facing all of them. “And you guys were really cute together, and we liked having you around. And he’s too proud and sad to come talk to you, so we’re doing it for him.”

“I got this.” Niall ruffles his hair, puts on the most ridiculous pout Zayn’s ever seen, and saunters over to him in what’s a pretty decent imitation of Harry’s swagger. “Baby,” he says, in a comically deep voice. “Please take me, Harry Styles, back?”

Zayn can’t help laughing.

“No,” Niall says, his voice normal. “Your line is, ‘not your baby’, then you kiss me, come on. Except don’t kiss me. Sorry dude, you’re pretty, but you’re not my type.”

“Just give him another chance,” Liam puts in, puppy dog eyes in full effect.

Zayn looks between all of them. They just…why are they making this difficult? He’s so fucking angry still, even if punching Chip had made everything feel a lot better, and Harry had still done all that—but he can’t just say no to these guys, when they had called him one of them, when they’d had his back when no one else did.

“I’ll think about it,” he allows.

“Is that like a mom’s ‘I’ll think about it?’” Michael asks, from the back.

“No,” Zayn snaps. “It’s an ‘I’ll think about it.’”

“Come on boys, we did what we could.” Bressie holds up his hands, like he’s some sort of shepherd. “And Zayn.” His intimidating look is very intimidating. “If you’re going to get into more fights, tell one of us first, so we can give you back up.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Zayn mutters, rubbing at his arm where Chip had hit him.

“No problem.” Bressie gives him one more stare, then turns to herd the rest of the boys away. Zayn watches them go. He knows they deserve his thanks. That they saved him, probably. But…but he can’t get that image out of his head, of Harry looming. Of Harry being every fucking thing he hates.

“Zayn.” Liam’s hand is heavy on his shoulder. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“I think you are.”

Liam doesn’t smile. His brow is furrowed, and he looks almost nervous, hunched over Zayn a little so he can be quiet.

“Um, so Harry said some stuff—and I can guess, from the timing—and I just don’t want you to think—anyway.” Liam runs a hand through his hair. Zayn waits. “So, the thing is, there’s this guy, he’s been giving Soph problems? Following her around, being really creepy, all that shit. She’s complained, but he hasn’t actually done anything, so there’s nothing the administration can do, you know? But she’s really freaked. So the boys have been trying to help, if they see him near her.”

Oh. _Oh_. Zayn’s eyes widen.

“So, a few days ago…”

 “Harry was warning him away, yeah.” Liam nods, his face so very earnest. “He was just helping me out. Being a good person. Not—whatever you thought.”

“Fuck.” Now it’s Zayn’s turn to run a hand through his hair. Fuck. He’d—he’d been defending a friend, and that was something Zayn could get behind. Something Zayn understood. He’d been defending a friend, and Zayn had just… “Fuck.”

“Soph doesn’t want to make a big deal about it, so Harry might not have told you, but I thought you should know.” Liam smiles hopefully. “If that’ll help. Because, like. I’ve never seen Harry as happy as he is with you.”

“Yeah.” Fuck. Zayn needs to go home, needs to think about this. “I—thanks. For telling me, Liam.”

“Of course.” Liam hesitates for a second, then punches Zayn’s arm, friendly. “And, I wanted to tell you too—I got a B on that paper.”

“Really?” Zayn does grin then, purely pleased. “That’s great, Liam.”

“All thanks to you.” Liam beams. “So, if I can help at all—if any of us can—just let us know, okay? If Chip comes after you or your cousin again.”

“Thanks, Liam.” Zayn finds he means it, too. “Really. Thanks.”

“Like Tommo said.” Liam grins. “You’re one of us.”

\----

Jawaad’s on the couch when Zayn comes in, but he’s staring at the door, not playing a video game or anything. Just clearly watching for Zayn.

“Waiting up for me?” Zayn jokes, as he closes the door. He really hopes Jawaad doesn’t want to fight too. He needs to figure out what the fuck he’s doing with Harry, that’s all his emotional energy tonight.

“You got into a fight with the Pi Sigs?” Jawaad demands, surging to his feet. “What the hell, Zayn?”

Well, there goes his hope of not fighting. “It wasn’t a fight. It was two punches.”

“How?” Jawaad’s gaze flicks up and down Zayn. “How’d you get out of it like that?”

Zayn sighs, and leans against the wall. “The Delta Chi guys came along. Backed me.”

“Well thank fuck for that.” Jawaad glares. “You could have gotten killed.”

“Aren’t you even going to thank me for defending your girlfriend?” Zayn snaps back.

“Yes.” Jawaad takes a deep breath, like he did when they were kids and he was trying not to rise to Wali’s bait. “Thank you. Really. Maria said what you did. But Zayn, you could have gotten killed.”

“I didn’t.” Zayn shrugs. “And I couldn’t not.”

It doesn’t seem like they’re fighting any more, so he walks over to the couch too, flings himself on it so their knees are touching. Jawaad’s still stiff, so Zayn nudges him with his knee, and Jawaad smiles weakly.

“I do appreciate it,” Jawaad says, quietly. “I know what you’ve always done for me, for all of us, and how it’s made my life easier. But you really don’t have to.”

“Sure I do.” Zayn tries out a smile, and it works, somehow. With Jawaad not mad, even with all this Harry shit. “I’m your big cousin, it’s what I do.”

“Yeah.” Jawaad sighs. “I’m just glad the Delta Chis came along when they did. What did they want?”

Zayn lets out a long breath. “For me to take Harry back.”

“And will you?” Jawaad turns, and for a second he looks so much like Zayn’s dad that Zayn’s heart hurts. “I don’t know what happened, but not making it about me or whatever—you’re a lot less on edge, when you’re with him.”

“Yeah.” Zayn drops his head back, so he can stare up at the ceiling. “I know.”

\----

It’s weirdly comforting, coming to the house. It’s only been a few days, but it feels longer, and its constancy is comforting in its general filth. There are still the same leftover PBR cans on the table, and the same wolf whistles as Ashton lets Zayn into the house, smirking.

“Yeah, shut up,” Zayn mutters, flipping any assorted brothers off. “Is Harry here?”

“In his room,” Ashton tells him. “Go get some.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn retorts, and heads upstairs.

He takes a deep breath before he knocks on Harry’s door. This isn’t something he’s good at—apologizing, backing down. But he needs to at least tell Harry what he’d thought, and how he’d been wrong. He owes him that. And…and fuck, he just misses Harry. Misses his arms and his hands and his smile, and he doesn’t even have the righteous anger to bolster him against that.

“I’m not going tonight, so give it up, Lou,” Harry calls, at Zayn’s knock. His voice echoes in Zayn’s bones, too long since he’s heard it.

“Not Louis,” Zayn calls back, and Zayn hears the footsteps before the door swings open.

Harry looks good. He looks a bit of a mess, in sweatpants and a t-shirt and his hair stuffed under a beanie, but he looks good as always.

“Zayn?” he rubs at his eyes, like he can’t believe it. “What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?”

Under his tight t-shirt, Zayn can see his chest expand, drain. Then he steps back, holds open the door.

It looks the same too, as the last time Zayn had been in here. Of course it did, but being here…it feels different.

Harry crosses his arms across his chest, which Zayn is at least fifty percent certain is an attack on his sanity, given the bulge in his biceps, and leans back against the door. “What are you doing here?” he repeats.

“Liam told me.” No better way than to just dive in, Zayn supposes. Fuck, he hates this. Can’t they just be at the point where he can get his hands on Harry again? “About Sophia, and that guy. And, like.” Zayn runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I was already angry in general, about Jawaad, and you got me on a bad day. Can we forget about it?”

He’s not expecting to be nervous, but he is, as Harry looks at him, with those calm green eyes. Assessing, like Zayn’s never quite seen them before, just as intent and hot but with something else, too. Something Zayn’s not entirely sure he likes. Zayn shifts on his feet, as Harry considers. He doesn’t know what there is to consider. He apologized, isn’t that enough?

“No,” Harry says at last, and Zayn’s heart thumps.

“What?”

“No,” Harry repeats, sure. “No, we can’t forget about it. Did you really think I’d beat some kid up for talking to my friend’s girlfriend? That I’m like Diller and those Pi Sigs?”

“It looked—” Zayn starts, but Harry doesn’t let him.

“I don’t care how it looked, you should have listened to me!” He pushes off the wall, paces forward, and for the first time Zayn really internalizes that Harry’s big and broad and he’s angry, in a way Zayn’s never seen him, the heat in his eyes not from lust, his cheeks flushed. “This is what you always fucking do, though. You have made so many assumptions about me from the day we met, no matter what I do, and—”

“Well can you blame me?” Zayn spits back. He’s not taking this lying down. “You started hitting on me the second you saw me! You’ve always acted like every other frat bro and—”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Harry shouts. “What is wrong with being in a frat? You have such a fucking superiority complex and I have dealt with all your fucking pretentious hipster shit—”

“What—”

“Every single time you’re so sure you know everything and that you’ve got to make everything so complicated and can’t just relax for one second and make fun of me and my friends, but no, you’re so sure you’re the one in the right! All the fucking time!”

“Because I am!” Zayn’s voice is rising too, and he knows everyone can probably hear it, but he doesn’t care. “Because this is everything I hate, everything that’s made my life miserable—”

“So are you! You and your judgment and your snobbery.”

“I’m not a snob.”

“You really fucking are, Zayn, and I love you for it, but you don’t get to just want me for parts of me!” Harry spreads his arms out wide. “You don’t get to just be an asshole to me again and again because you think I’m some Neanderthal who can’t feel anything, because I have never once treated you like that!”

“Yeah?” Zayn snaps. “What about when you thought someone else was hitting on me and decided to maul my neck?”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “You enjoyed that just as much as me.”

“Doesn’t mean you weren’t claiming me.”

“So what if I was? What’s wrong with wanting people to know you’re my boyfriend?” Harry retorts, and takes another step forward. “What is wrong with being in a frat, and having all this? What makes it so wrong? Without all of your stereotypes and prejudices, what is so wrong?”

“It just is!” Zayn yells, and takes his own step forward. He didn’t—Harry’s wrong. He’s not prejudiced, he’s just realistic, because he knows the odds. He knows the odds and Harry’s muscles are flexing and his eyes are bright and his cheeks flushed like they are when they fuck. “Because I hate everything frats stand for, but I can’t hate you, and it just is!”

“And I can’t stand half your hipster bullshit!” Harry yells. “So don’t come in here wanting me back but ignoring the parts of me that you don’t like until you can use them against me, because I can’t do that anymore. If you want to be an asshole like that, go somewhere else, I’m done.”

“You’re done?” Zayn rocks forward. He’s not even sure what he’s saying anymore, he just knows Harry’s hurting him and he’s wrong he has to be wrong so he wants to hurt Harry back, wants Harry not to be done with him, and anger is better than hurt. “That’s good to know, so I won’t get a booty call tonight, begging because you can’t think of anything but me? So you aren’t miserable without me? So you’ll be okay when I find someone else?”

Harry closes the distance between the again, and he is looming now. “I’ll wish them the joy of you. Tell them to get out before they realize what an asshole you are.”

Zayn can feel his hand shaking as he closes it into a fist. “Better an asshole than a victim,” he retorts. Harry’s close now, and he can feel the heat of him as he tilts his head back to keep eye contact. “But really, you’ll wish them the joy of me? Maybe I’ll go find that Paul guy, see if he can’t keep me satisfied. See if he can put up with all my literary hipster bullshit, see if he likes touching me—”

“Shut up,” Harry hisses.

Zayn glares. “Or what?”

He’s not sure which of them move first. He just knows that his mouth’s on Harry’s, and Harry’s stumbling back against the wall as his hands clutch hard at Zayn’s hips, their lips and tongues and teeth clashing as they kiss. Zayn’s not sure if he’s angry or turned on or turned on by the anger or if it’s just Harry but he wants, and he knows he’s muttering Harry’s name over and over again as he kisses at his jaw, biting at his neck. Harry’s hands grab at his ass, pulling him in, pulling him close, those big hands Zayn’s missed.

“Off,” Zayn snaps, and then he’s yanking at Harry’s shirt, pulling it off of him as quickly as he can. He’s burning with it, with the need, to show Harry he won’t just fucking give him up like this, that he might have his bullshit but this he can do.

Harry doesn’t even both saying anything, his hands are just under Zayn’s shirt already, scratching at his back, and their hips are grinding together and Zayn can feel how hard Harry is, to match him.

“Fuck, Zayn,” Harry breathes, and then he’s pulling or tugging or something and they’re falling onto the bed.

Zayn crawls on top of him before he can do anything, his hands frantic on Harry’s chest, his abs, his hips. He slides down, pulls off Harry’s sweatpants, and keeps that frantic exploration, as Harry moans above him. He’s doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until,

“Zayn, I didn’t,” Harry pants out, his hand grabbing at Zayn’s hair to pull him back up. “There wasn’t anyone.” 

“Good,” Zayn growls, and then he’s pulling his own shirt off, and Harry barely lets him do that before he’s rolling them so he can bite his own marks at Zayn’s chest, below his belly button, before he finally gets Zayn’s pants off.

“I wish I could hate you,” Harry mutters, and licks around Zayn’s nipples, so Zayn squirms and then shoves his head away, so he can grab a condom and lube.

“I wish I could hate you,” Zayn retorts, and throws the condom at Harry before pouring lube onto his fingers. Harry’s staring, hot and hungry, and he licks his lips as Zayn reaches between his legs. “I should—fuck I should hate you Harry, you—”

“I’m not that,” Harry insists. He knocks Zayn’s hand aside when he adds another finger, grabs the lube himself. “You know that Zayn.”

“Fuck,” Zayn swears, as Harry slides two of his own fingers in, thicker than Zayn’s. “I know Harry I know—”

“Do you?” Harry purrs, scissoring his fingers slowly. “Do you? Or do you think I’m just another stupid frat bro?” He twists his fingers to brush Zayn’s prostate, and Zayn’s back arches as he cries out.

“No, you—just fuck me already, come on.”

“I’m not,” Harry says again, and adds another finger. He’s staring at Zayn like there’s no one else in the world but him. “I’m not, I’m just me, and you either want all of me or none of me, you don’t get part.”

“Harry.” Zayn tries to pull him close for a kiss, to touch him, but Harry won’t, just keeps his three fingers in Zayn, not fast or big enough so Zayn’s grinding down on them, and he lets go of Harry to stroke at his own cock, but he doesn’t want to come before Harry gets in him.  “You going to lecture me or fuck me?”

“Can’t I do both?” Harry retorts, but he pulls his fingers out, and Zayn’s mouth might actually be watering as he rolls the condom on.

He pauses, above Zayn, as Zayn’s legs wrap around his waist. “God, Zayn…”

“Harry,” Zayn says again, urgent, and it seems to shake Harry out of it, because then he’s lining up his cock and sliding in, and Zayn’s groan feels like it’s ripped from him, or maybe that’s Harry’s, he doesn’t know.

“Zayn,” Harry pants, as he starts to move. “God, I should—I just can’t—you’re such a fucking asshole,” he swears, and Zayn tightens his legs around Harry’s waist in response, bringing him deeper.

“So are you,” Zayn retorts. “So arrogant and smug and fuck yeah right there.”

“What was I?” Harry purrs, but he’s hitting Zayn’s prostate again and he can’t think. “Is that good, Zayn? Do you want me?”

“Harry,” is all Zayn can get out, and he reaches down to jerk himself off, but Harry’s hands are on his wrists suddenly pinning them on the top of the bed, and Zayn’s whole body shudders with that, with how Harry’s hand spans his wrists, keeps him there; how Harry’s other hand is on Zayn’s dick but it’s not quite enough—

“Do you want me?” Harry says again, as he fucks hard into Zayn, and Zayn doesn’t have breath to answer. “All of me, baby? Because I want you, all of your fucking snobbish arrogance, and fuck Zayn you feel so good, want you—” his hand tightens on Zayn, moving faster, and Zayn moans and arches against Harry’s grip, wanting more. “Do you?”

“Harry.” It’s all that’s in Zayn’s mind. “Harry, please, yeah, please, want, I’m so close, please, come on—”

“Do you?” Harry repeats, and his eyes are burning as he stares at Zayn.

“Yeah,” Zayn gets out, forces out. “Yeah, Harry, please, yes, I do, please, more—”

He lifts his head to kiss Harry, because it’s all he can think to do, and Harry kisses him back and his grip is just right on Zayn and he fucks into him hard and deep and Zayn’s just breathing his name into Harry’s mouth as he comes.

Harry keeps fucking him through it, his other hand coming up for leverage as he lets go of Zayn, and Zayn has enough brainpower left to run his hands through Harry’s hair, scrape over his back like he likes. “Feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “You feel so good, Harry, no one feels as good as you, no one make me feel—”

He can feel Harry come in him, feels the harsh breaths against his neck, but he keeps holding on until Harry’s spent, collapsing on top of him.

Zayn pushes Harry off softly, then has to get up to get to the laundry bag to get a rag. When he comes back, Harry’s already thrown away the condom, and is spread out on the bed, his gaze wary.

“Are we going to fight again?” he asks, as Zayn comes back to sit on the bed. “Because I’ll need some time if it’s going to end up like that.”

“I didn’t mean to fight in the first place.” Slowly, Zayn lies down next to him, but Harry doesn’t push him away or anything, just lifts himself up onto one elbow to look at him. Maybe Zayn should be more worried, but he thinks any nerves or anger just got fucked out of him completely.

“I know.” Harry’s eyes are somehow big and young as they look at him. “But, I meant what I said, Zayn. You’ve always thought the worst of me, and I’ve never done anything to deserve that. You can’t keep doing that, if we’re doing this. You can’t just keep taking the parts you want and ignoring the ones you don’t like.”

Zayn swallows. He hadn’t thought that he had been. But it’s…

“Did you mean it?” he asks, instead of answering.

“I just said I did—”

“No.” Zayn sits up a bit too. “You said earlier—you said you loved me for it. Do you?”

“Oh.” Harry’s cheeks are a bit red, and he runs a hand through his hair. “I…I think so. I know I’ve never felt like this about anyone else. And that I was miserable without you. And that you make me happy. So, probably?” He shrugs, like that’s enough. And maybe it is. Maybe it is that simple. That Harry makes Zayn happy, and he hated not having him here, and he’s different than anyone else.

“I’ll never like frat culture,” Zayn says, slowly. “It’s—that sort of thing has left a lot of scars, and it makes people do stupid shit, and I don’t like that. But I like you. And your friends. And I can accept that there are good parts of it.” He knows he’s biting his lip, and stops. “And I’ll try to be less of an asshole about it. If, like. If you’re okay with that.”

Harry grins, blindingly bright, his dimples deep in his cheeks. “I can be okay with that,” he agrees, and leans in to kiss Zayn, slow and sweet enough that Zayn keeps his eyes closed for a second after they stop.

“So…are we, like.” God, Zayn hates himself. “Official, then? Boyfriends, or whatever?”

“If I had a letterman’s jacket, I’d give it to you,” Harry promises. “Actually…” he rolls over, grabs something on the other side of the bed. When he rolls back over, he’s holding his Delta Chi baseball hat. Very carefully, he puts it on Zayn’s head, turns it backwards. “There. Official.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. “I’m not wearing this outside.”

“I’ll convince you,” Harry dismisses, cheerfully. Then, without warning, he grabs a shoe and whips it at the door. “And you can stop listening, perverts! We made up.”

Zayn hears a thump from outside the door, like someone fell over. “Well if you didn’t argue and fuck so loudly, we wouldn’t be worried when you got quiet!” Louis retorts, through the door. Then there are footsteps thumping away. “They made up!” Louis yells. “Watch out for the area around Harry’s room again, it may scar young ears!”

Zayn falls back onto the bed, laughing. Harry grins sheepishly as he squirms closer, so his chin is resting on Zayn’s shoulder. “Still not being an asshole about it?”

“Convince me not to,” Zayn retorts, and Harry smirks, tilting his face up.

“Oh, I can do that,” he purrs, and pulls Zayn on top of him to show him how.

\---

Zayn is cold. It’s cold and he’s bored and this is not how he wants to spend his Sunday morning, which is asleep with Harry and then maybe seeing if he can convince Harry to bring him coffee from downstairs. Not in this stupid parking lot with a lot of drunk college students yelling about a game he doesn’t care about.

 “Zayn!” Comes a voice, and then there are arms around Zayn’s waist, pulling him into Harry’s chest. He smells like beer, and when Zayn turns around, his eyes are bright, and his cheeks are flushed behind the facepaint that Zayn’d already heartily mocked. “You ready to sit on my lap and let me explain football to you?”

Zayn shoves at his shoulder, but it’s hard to stay grumpy when Harry’s grinning at him like that. “I’m not sitting in your lap. And it’s cold.”

“That’s because you’re wearing a leather jacket at a tailgate,” Harry snorts, and gets his hands in his jeans to pull him close. “I know you look hot, but doesn’t do much to keep you warm.”

Zayn smirks. “Then you’ll just have to do that, won’t you?”

“Or you could have more beer,” Niall remarks, from behind them. “Honestly. This is a sporting event, not a sex club.”

“Yeah?” Zayn throws over his shoulder, but he relaxes into Harry. He is warm, in his sweatshirt and bulk. “You got a lot of experience in sex clubs then, Niall?”

“Your mom has a lot of experience in sex clubs,” Niall retorts, and Harry snorts.

“Hey, don’t insult Zayn’s mom. She’s lovely.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. Zayn’s mom had loved Harry, when they’d come down to pick him and Jawaad up for Thanksgiving break and taken them out for dinner. Not that it hadn’t been cute, watching Harry fuss beforehand, hearing from Louis afterwards how many outfits he’d gone through and how he’d looked up conversation topics ahead of time. But now his mom won’t shut up about his lawyer boyfriend, and it’s getting old.

“You just like that she sends you cookies now too,” he accuses.

“I do like that,” Harry agrees, easily. “And they should all like that too, because I share.”

“Fine.” Niall rolls his eyes. “Be that way. I’m gonna go find someone who appreciates my offer of beer.” He stalks off, and Zayn ignores it to huddle closer into Harry. It’s really cold.

“Never knew you to turn down free beer,” he tells Harry, who shrugs.

“I’m here on a mission,” he admits, and drags his hands out of Zayn’s pockets to dig into his own. When he comes out with a facepaint pen, though, Zayn steps back, disentangling himself.

“No.”

“Come on, Zayn, where’s your school pride?” he demands, brandishing the pen. “Don’t you want to show your spirit?”

“I am breaking up with you if that touches my face,” Zayn tells him, laughing as he backs away. “You got me to a tailgate, that’s as far as I go.”

“This is part of the tailgate!”

“It’s not!” Zayn insists, and dodges around a cooler. There’s a bunch of the guys hanging out by the beer; Liam’s his best bet, Zayn knows, and darts behind him. “You’ll never catch me, Styles!”

“Think it’s a bit late for that,” Bressie points out, as Harry and Zayn keep circling a laughing Liam. Zayn ignores it, because staying out of reach of Harry is a lot harder than it should be for someone who trips over everything. At least this is keeping him warm, he figures, and the competition usually gets Harry ready to go when Zayn does let him catch him.

This time, though, Zayn dodges one way—and runs into Louis, who grabs his shoulders. “Caught him!”

“Louis!” Zayn snaps. Then, “Liam!” because Liam’s betrayed him, grabbing Zayn’s other shoulder.

“Sorry.” Liam’s grinning though, not sorry at all. Fucking frat bros, Zayn scoffs, and tries to pretend it isn’t fond. “You’ve got to have some of our colors on, though.”

“Told you you should have worn my shirt.” Harry stabs a finger into his chest, then waves the pen. “Now hold still.”

“This is bullying,” Zayn mutters, as Harry’s hand cups his cheek, and he stills on instinct. “Keeping me here against my will. Abduction.”

“It’s really not,” Harry hums, his tongue peeking out from between his lips as he works. Zayn wonders, idly, how much it would mess things up if he kissed him now. It would probably get Louis and Liam to let go of him—they’re still a little unsure how to treat Zayn when he switches from their bro to Harry’s boyfriend, though Zayn does know they’re trying.

He’s only just considered the plan, though, when Harry steps back. “Done!” he announces, and pulls out his phone. “Smile, baby.”

“Not your baby.” Zayn rolls his eyes, but he pouts at the phone, hollowing his cheeks like he knows Harry likes.

“Beautiful.” Harry takes the picture, then turns it around so Zayn can see the symbol on his cheek. It’s not nearly as garish as the ones Harry has across his face, or what Zayn can see on people’s stomachs, so there’s that at least. Not that Zayn really thinks Harry would be that much of an asshole. “You can let go of him now, guys.”

“Don’t like us having our hands on your boy?” Louis teases, but he lets go, holds up his hands. “Now look like you’re having fun, Zayn, and you’ll fit right in.”

“Don’t ask for too much,” Zayn retorts, and glares at Harry, who’s typing on his phone. “What are you doing?”

“Sending that to Claire. She wanted proof I got you here.” He pauses, then grins at his phone. “Marta says you look wonderful, and she’s immortalizing this moment forever.”

“I hate you, and my friends are traitors,” Zayn snaps. Claire becoming more and more accepting of Harry, if not everyone he comes with, has not been as nice as it sounds. He knew he didn’t have a chance with Marta, but he’d hoped Claire would stay on his side.

“You don’t hate me.” Harry tells him, dimpling. He slides his fingers into Zayn’s belt loop, pulls him close, and Zayn doesn’t bother to resist. He’s cold, and Harry’s warm. And he likes being near Harry, even if he’s being ridiculous and making Zayn go to a fucking tailgate. At least they’re on one end of the parking lot, away from where the Pi Sigs are being loud and obnoxious.

“Sure I do. You made me come here.”

“I can make you come here,” Harry replies, his voice going deep, and smirks. “There are bathrooms in the stadium, you know.”

“Gross ones.” Zayn wrinkles his nose. “We could have been having sex if we were in bed now.”

“But now we get to watch football! And I can explain it all to you and you can nod like I’m brilliant.”

“Sounds delightful. And I do understand most of it, I’ve hung out in the living room enough while it’s on.”

“Stop making sense.” Harry presses his lips quickly to Zayn’s. “If you really hate it, you can go. I won’t mind.”

“Nah.” Zayn lets out a breath, and shrugs. “I should go to one football game while I’m in school, right? And I suppose you’re tolerable company.”

Harry grins, brighter than before, all his arrogance melted away. “Knew you loved me really.”

“You. Not football,” Zayn clarifies, and pushes up for a real kiss, because he needs proper warming up.

They’re broken out of it by Niall’s yell of, “Harry! Pick up game, us versus the Alpha Rho. You in?”

Harry breaks the kiss, tilts his head and sticks out his lower lip at Zayn. Zayn scoffs, but he disentangles his hands from Harry’s hair. “Go on. I’ll amuse myself.”

“You can watch me win, that’ll be amusing,” Harry informs him, and gives Zayn’s ass a final squeeze as he runs off to where a bunch of the boys are gathering.

Zayn wanders over to the truck, where he grabs a can of beer. Maybe it will warm him up. It will at least make this whole thing more interesting. He cracks it open, and leans against the truck to drink it, idly watching as the Delta Chi guys huddle up on one end of the open space, clearly discussing strategy.

Zayn pulls out his phone, then, when he’s done with that and the boys are still playing, he gives it up for lost and pulls the book he’d brought for just this possibility out of his pocket. Rumi gets him through another few minutes, until—

“The fuck are you doing reading!” someone jostles into him, and his book falls to the ground as Zayn looks up into a flushed, broad face under a Pi Sig hat. “’s a football game, not a library!”

“And this is a book, not a football,” Zayn snaps. God, he hates frat bros sometimes, even now. When they do shit like this. “So go throw your football around and leave me to do what I want.”

“Why don’t I just throw the book around,” the guy retorts, and if Zayn could set people on fire with his mind, this guy wouldn’t have any problem staying warm.

“Just try—”

“Beer’s in the back,” Harry cuts in, his hands coming to grab at Zayn’s waist, squeezing in a hint of warning. Zayn hisses out a breath. It’s not his fault. “Go grab some if you need it, Jones.”

“Styles,” the guy grunts, and apparently forgets all about Zayn in favor of alcohol.

“This is what you get for bringing a book to a tailgate,” Harry says, letting go of Zayn to pick up the book. He slides it into his pocket, and moves his hand so he’s holding Zayn’s hand instead of his hips. “Did you think the game was going to be that boring?”

“Didn’t want to risk it.”

“Well, don’t worry. I’ll keep you entertained,” Harry waggles his eyebrows, and Zayn snorts as he jostles Harry with his shoulder. Harry squeezes his hand, and starts to tug him towards the stadium where people are gathering.

He really does hate frat bros, Zayn knows. He does. Just…

He lets Harry herd him to their seats, and does try to listen as he starts explaining everything, an excited smile on. His hair’s a mess around his face, held back by his baseball cap, and Zayn has to kiss him, shutting him up for a second.

Harry’s dimpling when he pulls back. “What was that for?”

Zayn shrugs. “’cause I wanted to.”

“You should want to more often.” Harry edges closer on the seats, throws his arm around Zayn’s waist. “So, our record’s about even with the team, so if we score…”

Just maybe not his.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to discuss? Comment or come chat on [ tumblr!](http://ridiculouslittleidiots.tumblr.com/)


End file.
